


Touchdown

by starshine



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU - high school football, Multi, Work In Progress, i love building friendship dynamics, other characters are introduced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:26:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshine/pseuds/starshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're uprooted from everything you've ever known and dropped headfirst into a school where literally nobody seems normal, you have to take each day and each person one step at a time and latch on to something that makes you feel at home.</p><p>For Steve Rogers, that thing is football.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello :)  
> this is very much a work in progress but i am exceedingly impatient and couldn't wait to get started :')  
> hope you enjoy :D
> 
> (also, author is british, please bear with her on the americanisms front)

“… he’s only sixteen. What are we expected to do? Where are the family – are they going to keep paying for the military school?”

 “No, no that’s not an option. There’s hardly any of them left, and without the salaries of the parents... plus, he doesn’t board anyway, they moved down here years ago. But we need to send him _somewhere –_ the kid needs a school; and, more importantly, someone to _live with._ ”

“We could always keep him with us – you know our children’s home is always open, maybe we could find him a foster family until he’s old enough to look after himself?”

“I’m not going to stick the boy in care after everything that he’s been through, not until we’ve tried absolutely everything else. That’s the last thing he needs… there’s a grandmother in New York, she wasn’t at the funeral so I suppose she doesn’t know yet-“

“Is she fit to look after a teenage boy?”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. But from what I can see, she’s the only family he’s got left.”

“… So we send him to her?”

“If she’s willing.”

“But what about his schooling? His entire life is down here, maybe care would actually be for the-“

“Care homes aren’t the best for anyone, Louise, least of all a teenage boy who’s lost both his parents in the last six months. I’m sure there’s schools in New York, even if it isn’t a military one – and hey, maybe the grandmother might even be able to afford to send him back … although, I highly doubt it. The mother didn’t have any life insurance when she died, and nobody can seem to trace what happened to the father’s SGLI payout – although you saw the state of the mother when she died, it isn’t hard to guess.”

“So, we send him to New York.”

“We send him to New York.”

Steve Rogers sat outside a room he knew he shouldn’t have been listening in to, hugging his knees tightly to his chest, his blonde hair stuck haphazardly to his forehead from the rain that day – not that he could find it within himself to care. Willing himself with all his strength not to cry, not again, he resolutely ignored the dull, heavy, thudding pain in his chest and the churning of his stomach, refusing to give into that now all too familiar sting at the back of his eyes.

He leaned back against the old wooden door he was trying to listen through. The careworkers’ voices were muffled, but their message was clear.

They were uprooting him from everything he’d ever known – from his school, his team, his friends, his almost-but-not-quite-will-they-won’t-they girlfriend, his home, his entire _life_. From Bucky and Peggy and the whole of the Commandos… if there hadn’t already been enough upheaval in his life, now they were taking away the only form of support structure he had, just for the sake of being with a grandmother he hadn’t seen since he’d moved out of Brooklyn in the first place when he was just a baby. They were sending him away from his life, his past present and future, into an entirely new world.

His head swam and span and stubborn, fiery tears burned the back of his eyes – he shook his head to clear the fuzz, blinking away the building tears and choking on a rising sob in his throat. What would Bucky say if he caught him crying? He’d call him a girl, a wuss, a sissy – Steve was a soldier, nearly, and soldiers didn’t cry. His Dad never, ever cried.

And so he resolved to letting the empty ache inside him consume him, in an attempt to feel something other than overwhelming grief, to nullify the sharp stabs that attacked him when he was least expecting it and made him double over just from the hurt inside him, knocking all breath from him when he remembered… he let his head fall back against the door with a dense thud, savouring the pain that wasn’t in his chest, no longer caring if they knew he was there, breathing deeply and unable to shift one foul thought from the forefront of his mind.

He was moving back to New York.

Alone.

\---

“Of course, I’m sure you’ll settle in nicely here. It may be a little different, a little less… _disciplined_ than what you’re used to, but we still have rules, which I’m sure you’ll respect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll find friends in no time, of course. But, like I said, just on your first day, I’ve assigned someone to show you around – if there’s any problems, you can always come back to me. Now, any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. So, you’ve got your schedule? Well then – have a nice first day then, Mr. Rogers.”

Mr Fury smiled magnanimously, doing nothing to quell Steve’s butterflies - which were flapping so violently they were making his entire body tremble - his one good eye crinkling with a happiness that Steve honestly couldn’t work out to be genuine or false. His other eye was covered with a rather ominous-looking eye patch, the strap of which curled around his bald head – if Steve had been nervous when he’d set foot on the school campus that morning, he’d been positively petrified when he’d walked into the principal’s office to see Mr Fury, eye patch and all, dressed head to toe in black, swearing like a sailor at the top of his voice down the phone to the board of governors, earning Steve’s first embarrassing blush of the year.

Steve stood, rooting his feet into the carpet to stop the shake in his legs, forcing a smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ll try.”

He shook Mr Fury’s hand as firmly as he could manage, hoping his smile was convincing enough and turned to leave - only to find his path through the open door blocked by a slender girl dressed all in black, with striking scarlet hair falling in loose curls to her shoulders, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“You summoned me, Fury?”

Steve swivelled back around to see Mr Fury’s reaction to that, entirely disbelieving of the casual way the girl had just addressed the _principal,_ of all people. If someone had done that in his old school – well, they didn’t, ever, so the point was invalid. Of course, girls in Steve’s old school didn’t wear black patent leather high heels, dark skin-tight jeans or leather jackets that seemed _entirely_ too fitted and low-cut to be allowed, either, so apparently they just did things differently here.

Mr Fury, however, didn’t seem all that bothered, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Ah, Miss Romanov. This is Steven Rogers – he’s the new student I was telling you about. You’ll be showing him the ropes today, making sure he doesn’t get too lost on the way to class and such like.”

It was an order, not a question, Steve noticed. Not knowing quite what else to do, he turned again, starting to feel like a doll in a music box, forcing his smile back to his face and offering his hand out to shake.

“Hi.” He said with a smile, his hand hovering in mid-air.

The girl didn’t flinch, didn’t offer her hand in return, just scanned him up and down with calculating, metallic grey eyes, her delicate, porcelain face entirely betrayed by the deadly neutral expression painted on it. She looked up to Fury, hands still in her pockets. Steve looked down to his feet, not wanting to turn again, letting his fingers curl inwards and his hand drop awkwardly back to his side.

He’d been there all of half an hour and he was already getting rejected by pretty – if slightly terrifying – girls. Way to go.

“Sure, no problem. As long as this means you’ll sort out Baker from the Math department? He’s really been on my case this week – I don’t think you’d want a repeat of last semester?”

Steve frowned at his converse, unable to stop himself but praying nobody saw. Was she… bargaining with the principal now?

The principal in question still didn’t seem to care, apparently actively participating in this weird haggling process. “I’ll see what I can do, Natasha. You know, you could always just stop getting detentions in the first place.”

Was that what they did here? Negotiate punishments?

The girl – Natasha, apparently – sighed, a tone of long-suffering heavy in her voice. “And then where would you be, sir?”

Mr Fury just hummed, leaving Steve as confused as ever. “Just… play nice. Oh, and Mr Rogers?”

Steve lifted his head, pulled out of his thoughts, looking back over his shoulder to see Mr Fury’s wide smile again.

“Have a nice day.”

Steve smiled uneasily back, still unsure as to what he’d just witnessed, and turned to face Natasha again…

… who was apparently already out of the office and halfway down the corridor.

Left with no other choice and armed with nothing so much as a map, he scurried after her, having to jog a little to catch up with her – even with the ridiculous heels, her walk was quick, purposeful, professional, even. She didn’t even slow down when he reached her, didn’t miss a beat or say a word, just kept walking down the corridor, the harsh click of her heels echoing in the emptiness.

An emptiness which Steve, for reasons unknown even to himself given present company, felt the need to break.

“Where is everyone?”

“Registration.” She said, as if it were obvious. Which, when he thought about it, it probably was.

She turned a sharp corner and Steve had to stumble to keep on track; just for a moment, a slight, fleeting, blink and you’ll miss it moment, he thought he saw a slight quirk on the edge of her lips, but then it was gone, as quickly as it had been there, leaving her face as emotionless and unamused as it had been the minute Steve had first seen her.

It really was clear that Steve was boring her, that she obviously had somewhere else she’d rather be, someone else she’d rather be with. Steve chewed his lip as he followed her, eventually deciding to jog a little so that he was walking next to her.

“Um… really, ma’am, I can probably find my way around on my own, I know how to ask for directions if I have to – you don’t have to, I mean, show me around… I’ll be fine.”

There was a definite smile this time. Steve was sure of it.

“Ma’am?” She echoed, the smile evident even in her voice. She stopped. Steve counted that as a little victory. “Where are you from, the forties?”

She looked up at him with such confusion and amusement in her eyes that Steve couldn’t help the pink blush that rose in his cheeks, her head tilted to the side like a curious puppy. He chewed his lip and, lacking anything else to say, answered honestly.

“No, Brooklyn. Well, I was born in Brooklyn, but I’ve mainly lived down in Virginia... but well, now I’m back – obviously, I guess.”

Her eyebrows were raised now, her expression still disbelieving. Steve chewed his lip again.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She said, expression unchanged. “But less of the ma’am, alright? I’m not the freakin’ Queen of England – my name’s Natasha, Natasha Romanov, and no, I don’t mind showing you the ropes today – anyway, what Fury wants, Fury gets, that’s usually the way around here. It’s better than detention with that freak from Math.”

Steve was sure she was laughing at him in her own creepy, silent way, but before either of them could say anything else, the bell signifying morning lessons screeched out across the complex, making Steve jump and making Natasha start to walk again.

He kept as close to Natasha’s back as he could, very aware that the first few students already filtering into the corridor were very much the drizzle before the hurricane. But Natasha walked with a calm purpose, and Steve felt very sure that if he stayed close enough to her, he’d be able to navigate the influx of teenagers, currently held back by nothing but a dam of classroom doors and teachers’ threats.

“So, ready for your first day?”

It took Steve a moment to register that she was talking to him, her voice was so unexpected. He felt for all the world like he’d passed a level in some kind of game, and chalked it up as another little victory. “Oh – erm, I guess so, I think.”

Her lips quirked again, and Steve guessed that that was just how she smiled. He wondered how people knew when she was actually happy or not. “That’s a no, then. Don’t worry, it’s not as scary as you’re imagining.” She paused for a beat. “Not quite.”

Well, that sounded ominous.

Her words did little to calm him down, but he didn’t let his panic show, attempting to pull up a stoic mask. “No, it’s fine, I’ll be fine – it’s just, different, is all.”

Natasha nodded, turning a corner without warning and leaving Steve stumbling. “I’ll bet – so, military school, what’s that like?”

There were a _lot_ more students down this corridor, opening lockers and slamming them shut again, trying and failing to carry more books than would even fit in their arms, pushing and shoving each other as they tried to reach their own, girls squealing and hugging their friends and boys jumping on theirs – Steve didn’t let the fact that Natasha somehow knew he’d been to military school trip him up, choosing instead to take it in his stride. “Different,” he replied, adding “We had uniforms there” after a moment.

Not here, though. There were people in dark coats that covered them from their neck to the floor, conversing with friends sporting bright pink or blue or purple or all of the above hair and what appeared to be metal necklaces; people in sports kits and team colours, Dodgers and Yankees caps worn every which way but the right way; people in the brightest clothes Steve had ever laid eyes on, looking like some kind of weird 70s throwback – and girls in _the_ shortest skirts he’d ever seen, making him blush and avert his eyes, even though they clearly hadn’t seen him, their hair tied up and their faces like Barbie dolls as they kissed the air on each other’s cheeks, talking so rapidly and simultaneously that Steve honestly wondered how they could understand each other.

Natasha brought him back to the present. “Really? Sounds awful.” She came to an abrupt stop – Steve had to stop himself from charging into her back. She tapped one of the lockers lining the wall and started fishing in her jeans pocket. “This here’s yours,” she said, producing a key hanging on one of her fingers from her pocket and swinging it in front of him. “Trust me, you’re gonna need it.”

“I’m fine, really-“ Steve started, but Natasha cut him off with a look and a “Trust me”, dropping the key into Steve’s shirt pocket for him.

A second bell rang, signalling that yes, Steve should really think about getting to lessons soon. Despite himself, he felt a twinge of nerves in his stomach. He had no idea what to expect – his lessons in Virginia had been so structured, so familiar and disciplined, with people he knew and cared about, but here… this was like an entirely different world, an entirely different time, even.

Maybe Natasha hadn’t been so far off the mark when she’d asked whether he was from the forties.

“So, where are you first?”

Her voice brought him back to the present and still caught him off guard, making him miss what she’d actually said. So, he reverted to the politeness that had been relentlessly drummed into him in the military school Natasha found so ‘awful’. “Sorry, ma’am, what did you say?”

Her eyes were still, dark and cold as she reached up and slapped him upside the head. Steve winced.

“Ow.”

She arched one, perfect eyebrow. “I did tell you to quit it with the ‘ma’am’. I don’t like asking twice. Now, lessons? I’ve been assigned to you for a reason, soldier – don’t want our latest recruit getting lost in this dump.”

Steve fumbled with the outside pocket of his backpack, pulling out the timetable Mr. Fury had given him, earning an eye roll from Natasha which he decided to ignore until he could figure her out properly.

“Erm, Math, I think.” As soon as he’d spoken, Natasha strode past him with a small groan and a ‘good luck with the teachers’, and this time, Steve followed. “Oh, and, erm, if you’re not ma’am, then I’m not soldier, Natasha.” He put extra emphasis on her name, trying to show quite clearly that he wasn’t just some soft idiot, as his behaviour so far had suggested, seeing as he’d just been hit upside the head _by a girl,_ even if she was the scariest girl he’d ever seen. He tried to show that two could play at her game. “My name’s Steve. Steve Rogers.”

By response, she simply shot him a look over her shoulder. A look which said, plain as day, ‘I do what I want’.

Steve nodded to himself, following Natasha as she strode away.

He mightn’t be a soft idiot, but certainly wasn’t going to argue; he could still feel where she’d slapped him.

\---

If there was one thing that Steve learned about state school on his first morning there, it was that between lessons, it was _every man for himself._

The bell screeches across the complex,  screaming through the corridors, an apparent dam to the violent tidal wave of teenagers that henceforth charge from each and every doorway – then there’s voices, shouts of teachers and students alike, the former at least attempting to hold on to some semblance of order. The smallest kids get lost in the waves, dragged away in the crossing currents, as older kids fight their way through the crowds, well-practiced in sailing through.

And Steve learned, very quickly, that the best way to navigate this was to press himself up against the lockers, knowing that despite the fact he was six foot one and an ex-quarterback, he could get swept away all too easily.

So there he stood, on his first day, waiting outside the Physics classroom for Natasha, as the seemingly millions of students in his new school charged past him, making their way to their lunch. It was true, Steve didn’t particularly _want_ to spend his lunch with Natasha, didn’t feel any sort of friendly connection with her – she was scary, and violent, and quite frankly, hadn’t been all that warm to him – but she was the only person he knew so far, the only person who’d offered to spend lunch with him, whether through being assigned to him or otherwise.

So really, he didn’t have much choice.

His morning lessons had been… interesting.

He’d sat at the back of the Math classroom, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible, thanking whoever was listening when the short, balding teacher wearing a faded jacket and a shirt that was only half tucked into his trousers hadn’t forced him to stand up and introduce himself like they always did in films. He, for his part, seemed far too preoccupied in catching his breath whilst trying (and mostly failing) to quieten his class enough to get them to open their textbooks at the right page.

Steve did so without needing to be asked twice, and sat, pen at the ready, waiting for the teacher to continue. The rest of the class, it seemed, had other ideas.

They continued yelling at each other, aiming paper planes and screwed up worksheets at each other, sitting on the desk with their feet up on the chairs, laughing and joking and just generally ignoring the adult at the front.

Steve couldn’t believe it. There was such a lack of discipline – the students didn’t pay the man at the front any attention at all until they felt like it, until the man banged the board rubber forcefully on his desk and managed to cut through the noise they were making, finally reducing the noise to a barely-there hum; barely-there, but still there – it didn’t seem like he could actually achieve full silence, as he starting writing formulae on the board.

Even then, the almost-discipline lingering over the class didn’t last long, as fifteen minutes into the class, the door opened again, and a boy entered, earning a whole lot of sniggering from the rest of the class. His voice was quiet, apologetic, barely audible through the whispers and snickers of the rest of the students.

“Um… sorry I’m late, Sir, I had to see Mr Fury-“

“Yes, yes – just take a seat, Mr Banner.”

The boy nodded quickly and pushed his thin, wire-framed glasses up his nose, clutching his books to his chest with his other hand and very purposefully avoiding everybody else’s eyes as he walked through the desks to the back of the classroom. He didn’t get halfway before someone shouted at him, though.

“Hey, Banner, they let you out early for good behaviour?”

“Or could you not just survive in there anymore?”

“Dude, if he couldn’t stick it out here, there’s no way he could _there-“_

The boy just kept walking, eyes determinedly focussed on a seat on the back row, kept walking when paper balls started bouncing off his head, kept walking until he was seated, books spread out in front of him on the seat on the same row as, but furthest away from Steve, his jaw locked and his eyes fixed on the board at the front, pushing his glasses up again and pulling a pen from his shirt pocket.

The rest of the class turned back around, then, a few of them still laughing, a few of them turning around every now and then as the teacher continued with his math just to get a look at the boy nearest Steve.

Steve, obviously, didn’t understand what was going on, who this boy was, or why they’d all been laughing at him – but he wasn’t going to let them affect him, that was for sure. He didn’t know this boy – hell, he didn’t even have any friends yet, and this boy didn’t seem to have any in this classroom at least, so maybe they could not have any friends together.

“Hi.” He said, carefully, across the desk, when the teacher had assigned their work. The boy – Banner, they’d called him – jumped, looked over at Steve with a startled look behind his glasses, as if trying to process whether Steve had said anything at all, or indeed, whether he was there at all.

Steve, sensing his second attempt to make a friend of the day wasn’t going all that well, smiled hopefully. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

The boy began to nod slowly, before turning back to his work.

So, that had gone well.

“Still alive, then? You coming or what?”

Steve was pulled from his daydream by a very impatient-looking Natasha Romanoff standing in front of him.

He hadn’t even noticed her coming, hadn’t heard her footsteps despite those ridiculous shoes. He didn’t know whether it was because he’d been so lost in his daydream, or because Natasha was just freakishly creepy, but he was leaning towards the latter.

She was standing there now, eyebrows raised to match her question, hands on her hips like an impatient mother. Steve shrugged.

“I guess so, ma’am.”

Her eyes flared, and he internally hit himself for forgetting. “Natasha, I mean. Sorry.”

Her eyes soon softened into something else – a smirk, a sly smile creeping over her lips, looking up at Steve with a look on her face that almost seemed amused.

“Alright then. This way.”

They began to walk through the corridor, now mostly empty, only a few of the slowest students lagging behind at their lockers, Natasha always slightly in front of Steve. It’d been like that all morning, he didn’t mind – after each of his lessons, she’d pick him up and take him to the next one, and had walked him to the cafeteria at break.

But, Steve supposed, it was all part of her job for the day.

“You never did actually tell me,” he began, without Natasha looking at him, “why did you get assigned to me in the first place? You just helping Mr Fury out?”

Natasha smiled as they reached the door to leave the building, holding it open for Steve. “Helping out? I guess you could say that - Fury and I, we’ve got an... _agreement._ ”

They walked out, Steve squinting in the bright sunlight. “Agreement? Well, that sounds ominous.”

She hummed. “It’s not. I just ended up in detention so often that he thought he’d better find a use for me, and so I do the odd job for him, whether it’s looking after the newbies or… well, other stuff. Now, I think he’s actually glad when I find myself in detention.”

Steve frowned. “You were in detention _that often_? What did you do to get stuck with me?”

She smirked up at him, eyes twinkling mischievously in the daylight in a way that made Steve’s stomach curl. “There’s some things you don’t need to know about me, soldier.”

Well, that was that. Steve wasn’t brave enough to push further.

The grounds around the school buildings were wide, open, grassy spaces, with footpaths in between and a football field with seats towering around it on the far side. Steve’s entire body ached when he saw it, wanted nothing more than to run to it and to _play,_ to pick up a football again for the first time in what felt like forever – but then, he’d already resolved to try out for the team when the time came, so it didn’t really matter. He missed the game, he missed the thrill, but more than that he missed his team – and there was very little chance of them following him to New York, so.

There were students on all sides, most trying to catch a tan, reading or listening to music, lying in groups of friends and laughing in the heat, a pleasant breeze rolling past every so often. Some were running, tossing balls to each other or chasing each other or throwing water at unsuspecting passers-by, but most were just sitting, or lying on the grass, enjoying the sunshine.

“Where are we headed?” He asked after a while, still walking down the footpath with Natasha.

“Over to the sports area. I’m meeting a friend of mine – you don’t have to come if you don’t want to, just thought you might like someone to spend lunch with.”

“No – no!” He replied, a little too quickly. “I’d love to come. Hey, it’s not as if I’ve got anywhere else to be. But your friend – won’t she mind?”

Natasha flicked a look at him. “ _He_ won’t care. You seem like a good guy – as a rule, Clint only hates jerks, so.”

Before Steve could decide where to go with that – before he could decipher that apparently Natasha’s scary attitude all morning really was just her, and the fact that she’d kept turning up for him actually meant she didn’t mind having him around, that she was taking him to meet her… well, ‘he’, whoever he was, who Steve presumed would be some kind of boyfriend – his attention was caught by nearby shouting and cheering.

He turned to see and his eyeballs nearly fell out of his head.

“What in the name of…”

Around two dozen girls stood in formation on the grass beside him, moving and jumping and chanting in tandem, crazy smiles on their face, all sporting the same hairstyle, their long ponytails bobbing about across their backs. They were all in uniform – a simple white and red number, but with the _shortest skirts Steve had ever seen._

He’d stopped, forcing Natasha to stop too. She looked thoroughly entertained by his expression. “Eyes front, soldier – quit staring at the cheerleaders.”

Steve dropped his head immediately, blushing scarlet to his ears. “I’m not – I wasn’t staring.”

He hadn’t been staring, not really, not in the way Natasha was thinking – but seriously, their skirts were indecently short. It was kind of hard not to notice. Especially with them… jumping, like that.

Natasha didn’t seem convinced. “Sure,” she said, just as the rhythmic shouting of the girls stopped, signalling the end of their routine, the noise descending into cheering and laughing, “whatever. Hey, I don’t care, you stare at whoever you like – God knows those girls aren’t exactly known for their high morals, if you know what I mean, so if you’re gonna go for that kind of thing, here’s the place to start.”

Steve blushed, if possible, harder. “That’s… that’s not what I – I don’t, I mean-“ He stammered, looking at Natasha. She smiled back, a sort of look of realisation dawning on her face.

“Oh! Alright, whatever takes your fancy – hey, I’m not going to judge you.”

He hadn’t quite understood what she’d meant by that, so he chose to ignore it. Besides, before he could say anything else, they were interrupted by a low laugh and a shout from the general direction of the cheerleaders.

“Oh, look who it is, girls! Come to try out, Romanov?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, jaw set. “Come on, Steve, I’m not in the mood today.”

Steve nodded and followed as she turned to walk away. The laughing behind them got louder.

“Of course not. You wouldn’t dare, would you, after what happened _last time_.”

The group of girls giggled in tandem, all bar one, in the centre, at the front. The smirk on her face was feline, wicked, mocking, tainting the beauty in her eyes.

Steve looked over at Natasha, who was standing with her jaw set. “Um… Natasha?”

“Let’s just go, okay?”

“But who have you brought with you today?”

Steve wheeled around, and found himself face to face with one of the cheerleaders – the leader, he thought, the girl from the front - long chestnut-coloured hair trailed in curls down her back, bright, emerald green eyes framed in dark black lashes stared up at them, a smile playing with her lips. Steve didn’t look any further than that, but still felt the blush return to his cheeks.

“Well, _hello._ ” She giggled, biting her lip, eyes sparkling. Steve coughed and blushed some more.

“Uh, hi, ma’am, I’m Steve -“

She cut him off with a shriek. “Oh my goodness! Aren’t you just the cutest – _ma’am_ – aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”

Steve could practically sense Natasha rolling her eyes. “Back off, Leanne. Yeah, we get it, he’s kind of old fashioned, military school’ll do that to you, now if you’ll excuse us-“

“Military school?!” Her voice was becoming supersonic – Steve really did try not to wince, but he didn’t think it worked. “Well, well, well – so we have a soldier, now, do we?” She turned and shouted back to her teammates. “Did you hear that girls? Steve here’s a _soldier_!”

The girls started whooping and whistling and all Steve could think to say was “Well… not really… not _yet_ …”

The cheerleader’s smile nearly blinded him. “So, Stevie, sweetie,” Steve’s brow furrowed at the words as the girl leaned into him, whispering not so quietly into his ear, “what _exactly_ are you doing hanging around with Romanov over there? You’ll get nothing from her – nothing good, anyway.”

Steve stepped back, out of the girls reach, still frowning. “Excuse me?”

The girl smirked and looked at Steve coolly. “I’m just saying, she’s got a certain… _reputation_ in this school that you mightn’t want to associate with.”

The girl looked slyly over to where Natasha was stood, jaw locked, eyes calm, lips pursed, but with an unmistakeable air of hatred radiating from her, something that looked uncomfortably close to the intent to kill shining in the glare directed at the cheerleader. Steve stood up straighter.

“I’m good, thanks.” He said curtly. The girl raised an eyebrow. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think we were just heading to the sports field.”

The girl laughed, turning to Natasha, a sneer betraying the delicate beauty of her face. “Of course you were! Well, Romanov, I don’t quite know what you’ve done to him, but I know it won’t last.” She looked back to Steve. “Trust me, whatever…” she waved her hand in a vague gesture between Natasha and Steve “ _this_ is, it won’t last when you get to know her, Stevie.”

Steve lifted his chin. “My name’s Steve.” He smiled politely.

Glancing at Natasha, he saw that she was looking at him too, a slight, almost imperceptible crease between her eyebrows, as if she was trying to figure Steve out. It only lasted a second, though before she turned back to face the cheerleader.

“ _This,_ ” Natasha stressed, waving her hand in the same way the girl had done, “isn’t anything. This is me making sure Steve doesn’t get lost. This is me not corrupting someone on their first day, which we all know you’re trying to do. I’ve asked you to back off, Leanne, and I don’t like asking twice – I seem to remember you’re not so bold when your pack isn’t there behind you, are you?” Her voice was low and controlled, her eyes dark and daring, and the cheerleader looked how Steve felt – a little afraid.  Natasha smirked. “And since the only thing Steve could ever _get_ from _you_ is herpes, I think it’s best he stays with me for today. Now, run along – there’s a good girl.”

The girl snarled, trying to cover the obvious tinge of fear in her face, but Natasha turned with a flick of her hair and walked away. Without another word, Steve followed.

He caught up with her soon enough.

“Nat-“

“Leave it Rogers – thank me later.”

“No, I-“

“Honestly, don’t mention it, what kind of a handler would I be if I let you get eaten by the head cheerleader on your first day?”

“Natash-“

“Steve!” She stopped and turned, leaving Steve to walk straight into her. She didn’t seem fazed. Nor did she need to say anything else. She fixed him with a glare that quite clearly ordered him to shut up and stop asking questions – something which Steve did as Natasha walked on.

But he couldn’t help wondering what those cheerleaders had meant – they said there’d been a last time? That Natasha had a reputation? And then Natasha, when she was talking – it was clear that there was history between the two girls, but Steve wasn’t brave enough, didn’t think he was close enough to Natasha – yet – to find out what kind.

And so, they walked on in silence, Steve walking a little behind Natasha, watching the bob of her curls as she walked across the grass. That is, they walked in silence until Steve saw something that made him momentarily completely forget about the silence he’d promised and the cheerleaders and the arguing and the _short skirts_ , since it was something so entirely unexpected and weird and just plain out of place that he had to voice it, to make sure it was real.

“Is that – is that an _archery field_?”

Steve still couldn’t see her face, but he could practically hear the grin in Natasha’s voice. “Yep. We have one of those here.” She looked over her shoulder, confirming the grin, and smiling wider than she had all morning at Steve’s presumably bewildered expression. “What, didn’t have one of those back where you came from?”

“Do they have those in most places?”

He was pretty sure that his mouth was agape when he looked back at her, earning an amused huff that he supposed constituted as a laugh, but Steve wasn’t paying enough attention to give himself another point, thanks to the _archery field_ in front of him. She swung her bag onto the floor and kept walking, closer to the targets – as Steve dropped his backpack next to her bag and caught up, he saw that she was actually walking towards someone.

There was one boy in the whole area, holding a bow and arrow with strong, defined arms visible thanks to the sleeveless vest he wore. His eyes were shielded from the bright sunlight by mirrored glasses which curved around his face, slightly purple in the light. He let the arrow he was holding fly, the taut bowstring slackening as he let go, shooting past his face so closely that Steve was surprised it hadn’t taken his skin off. It was then that Steve noticed Natasha wasn’t walking to the boy, but rather the target the arrow was shooting towards.

It hit the target square in the centre, directly in the bull’s eye, a perfect shot – but the boy didn’t flinch. Natasha, having reached the target, looked at the arrow down her nose. She had to shout for the boy to hear her.

“You’re getting worse by the day, Barton.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. Worse? That shot was _perfect,_ and from the distance the boy was, it was pretty amazing, too. She pulled the arrow from the board and started to make her way back to the boy, who was running his hand over his bow as if it were made from some precious metal.

“Oh yeah, how’s that?”

Natasha marched up to him, next to him soon enough, Steve at her heels. “A whole inch from the centre. Your standards are slipping.”

He snatched the arrow from her and bent down to tuck it into a quiver at his feet. “Leave it out, Romanov. I’d like to see you do better.”

Natasha just shrugged, a faint smile on her face. The boy straightened up and smiled back, not angry like his voice had suggested, but soft, friendly. Steve shifted awkwardly, suddenly feeling a whole lot like a third wheel.

The boy pushed his sunglasses up through his short, brown hair, revealing dusty blue eyes underneath, squinting at the sudden invasion of unfiltered light. He cocked his chin at Steve. “Who’s this guy?”

Steve stopped his eyebrows from rising. Why couldn’t the boy just ask him himself? He’d had enough of feeling invisible today.

Natasha turned, as if only just remembering that Steve was even there.

“This is Steve Rogers, Fury asked me to look after him for the day.”

Clint smiled a knowing smile. “Oh, Fury.” His voice was almost affectionate - Steve began to wonder if Natasha wasn’t the only one Fury had an ‘agreement’ with.

“Steve, this is Clint Barton, the school’s resident Olympic hopeful. Although, apparently not anymore.”

Clint narrowed his eyes at Natasha, who didn’t even flinch. Steve held his hand out for the other boy to shake. “Hi.”

Clint looked down at Steve’s hand, then up at his face, hands on his hips, nodding slowly. “Right.”

Steve closed his hand and let it drop awkwardly to his side for the second time that day, chewing his lip. So it wasn’t just Natasha, they just didn’t shake hands here. He made a mental note.

After a beat, Clint turned back to Natasha. “Anyway, fuck you. I’m going to the Olympics – ain’t nobody in the whole of America who can fire arrows like I can.”

Steve straightened at Clint’s language – a move that didn’t go unnoticed by Natasha. She looked up at him, eyebrows at her hairline, and snorted – the most unladylike gesture Steve had ever seen. He tried not to blush.

Clint’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “What? What’s up?”

“Princess Rogers is from a military school, down in Virginia.” Natasha explained. Steve bristled and frowned deeply at the prefix ‘princess’, but she continued, looking back at Clint, before he could say anything. “They’re stuck in a whole other decade down there, apparently. A decade full of gentlemen and a strict no-swearing policy, where the guys hold the doors open for the ladies and call everyone ma’am.”

Clint looked up at Steve. “Well, shit.”

Steve spluttered. “It’s just different here, that’s all – we weren’t in a different decade, thank you very much, we were just more… disciplined. Any guy who spoke like that got some kind of daft punishment – one guy actually had his mouth washed out with soap.”

Steve smiled, a little wistfully, at the memory, and suddenly found himself drowning in thoughts of his old life.

That guy had been James Barnes, Bucky, his best friend, always pushing the rules to see how far he could bend them before they’d break, flirting shamelessly with the girls in the adjacent girl’s school, always laughing, and always, _always_ at Steve’s side. He’d been the one who’d got Steve into the school in the first place, shared his dream of being a soldier when nobody else thought he would, thought he _could,_ and between them, Steve and Bucky had proved them wrong. Like always.

A sharp pang of longing, of regret, fired in Steve’s chest for the first time that day, hitting him squarely where it hurt most as accurately as Clint’s arrow had hit the board. He was struck by a sudden wave of pain again, as he remembered everything, everyone he’d left behind, everything that had happened in the past six months, everything that had forced him here to this strange unruly place – it knocked the breath out of him, made him want to double over and cry again, break his month’s record of no-tears as the overwhelming homesickness took him from the field he was standing in and welled up in his throat, making his head swim and his eyes sting.

But he couldn’t dwell on it – not now, not here. He forced himself out of his comfortable memories and longing for home, back into the present again, where Clint and Natasha were still processing his story. He couldn’t let them see how much he missed them, his friends, his school, couldn’t let them see how much hurt he was hiding, hadn’t let anyone see for over six months, so he kept his expression stoic, trying for nonchalance but undoubtedly not quite succeeding.

Clint’s expression was pure bewilderment, one eyebrow raised, mouth slightly agape. “Well, shit.” He said again. “Not sure I’d have liked it there.” He collapsed into a seated position on the grass without warning, carefully laying his bow next to him, Natasha following, curling her legs up under herself.

Steve stood, chewing his lip.

“Sit down, Jesus, Steve.”

Steve did.

They sat, Clint seemingly polishing his bow with some sort of cloth from his quiver, Natasha leaning back, eyes closed and sunning herself like a cat, Steve watching them and still chewing his lip. Eventually, he decided he needed to break the silence.

“So, Olympic hopeful?”

Natasha opened one eye. “Not with shots like that.”

Clint threw his cloth at her. “’S the only reason I come here – hard to find a school with an archery field, and I kinda need the practice –“

“Sure do.”

He ignored her “- so, yeah. Hopefully, anyway.”

Steve nodded. “Archery, though, that’s pretty cool.”

For the first time, Clint’s expression shifted from the blank, slightly intimidating one he’d been wearing since he’d been firing the arrow, all sheer and sharp determination and thinly veiled threats. He smiled. “I think we might just get along.”

Natasha sighed. “His ego doesn’t need buffing any more, Rogers.”

“Hush, Tasha. It’s nice to see someone appreciate the truly epic and awesome nature of the epically awesome sport of archery.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a sport for Ancient Greece and Robin Hood.” Steve smiled, as Clint gasped melodramatically, clutching his hand to his chest.

“That cuts me real deep.”

Natasha smiled – the small, softer smile she’d smiled at Clint before – and Clint smiled back again. Once more, Steve felt intrusive, like he’d invaded in a moment he wasn’t wanted in, a secret relationship between these two, hidden in a quiet corner of the archery field.

Steve coughed. “So how long have you two been together then?”

The change in the atmosphere was tangible. Clint’s knuckles went white around his bow, his eyes darting up to Steve’s face, stony and daring Steve to make another move; Natasha bolted to sit upright, glaring at Steve with the same intensity she’d directed at the cheerleaders before.

It was really quite terrifying.

“Erm-“

“He is not my boyfriend.”

“We are not together.”

Steve shuffled in his seated position. “…Okay. Erm. Sorry? I just thought, you know, with the… stuff, and stuff.”

“No.” Clint’s expression was back to shooting mode. Steve felt incredibly uncomfortable under it.

Natasha nodded. “If you weren’t such a puppy, Rogers, my hand would be around your neck right now.”

Steve didn’t know how to react to being threatened by a beautiful teenage girl who, at that moment, looked like she probably could kill him as easily as she could have killed that cheerleader or stood on an ant if she so wished, so he just sat still, pondering his comparison to a puppy.

Clint scoffed. “You’d have to have a death wish to get with in a metre of Natasha Romanov.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “You’d have to be inhumanly dense to get that close to Barton.”

“Hey!”

And just like that, the atmosphere softened again, the easy banter between the two of them returned, and the tension in Steve’s shoulders was released.

So, touchy subject then.

\---

When the bell went in his English class to signal the end of the day, Steve couldn’t have been more grateful.

After his – surprisingly pleasant – lunch with Natasha and Clint, which mainly consisted of Clint explaining how great archery was and cracking stupid jokes at Natasha’s expense just to see how she’d react (usually with a roll of her eyes, occasionally with a glare), he’d had two more lessons before the end of the day – and when that moment came, Steve could not wait to get home. The pressure was building in him, now, the noise and the people getting too much – he wanted to get back to his room, to make sure his grandma was okay, to just go to bed.

What he didn’t expect, when he left the classroom, swept along in the sea of charging students, was to see Natasha standing calmly outside, book tucked under her arm.

He walked up to her, smiling. “I think I can find my way out alright – I’ll just follow the crowd.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Do you really think so little of me, Rogers? As if I’d leave without saying goodbye.”

A warmth spread through the bottom of Steve’s stomach – she hadn’t been bored of him, after all, she just was genuinely terrifying and actually didn’t mind having him around. He couldn’t stop the beam on his face even through the exhaustion. Natasha’s eyebrows fell.

“Alright, soldier, leave it out, it’s only a goodbye. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow though, yeah?”

Steve nodded. “Sure.”

She smiled a little. “Try not to get lost on the way home.”

Steve’s smiled widened even further as she turned away and he called after her “I’ll try my best!”

So, despite everything, it seemed that he’d actually succeeded in making a friend, no matter how tentatively, no matter how scary or mysterious she was, no matter how little she knew about him.

Natasha was no Bucky, that was for sure – but she was definitely a step in the right direction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is taking longer than expected.  
> Fun, though :'D  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (alas, still no football.)

“Decided to chance a second day, then?”

Steve closed his locker to see Natasha leaning comfortably against the lockers on the other side, not even looking at him, her pale grey eyes flitting from side to side as she watched the population of the school scurry past.

He clicked his lock into place and smiled a small smile. “I thought you were only assigned to me for the day? You’re free to go if you want to.”

Without turning her body to face him, Natasha met his eyes and shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say? I’ve got a big heart. Always giving.” She looked away again and smiled – a slow, creeping smile that made Steve squirm even when it wasn’t directed at him. “Besides, you’re not out of the woods yet.”

That sounded a little too ominous, a little too much like a threat. Steve furrowed his eyebrows a little. 

“Excuse me? I got through the cheerleaders wearing next to nothing and the people pushing past in the halls and the talking back to teachers and the lack of uniform and the weird sports you guys have here – hey, I even handled your creepy archer boyfriend-”

Natasha’s smile fell, her voice cold and intimidating. Jesus, this was Steve’s second day with her, and she still made him nervous. “He is not my boyfriend.” 

He chose not to argue. “Sure, fine, that’s fine. But I think I’m over the initial shock now, so yeah… on your way, you can head back to… whatever it was that got you in detention in the first place, I suppose.”

The smile was back as Natasha rolled her eyes lazily to meet Steve’s. “Oh, soldier - If you think that Clint’s the biggest problem you’ll face in this school, then you have got another thing coming.”

Steve bristled. “Hey, I didn’t say he’d be a problem-“

Natasha sighed, looking to the ceiling. Clearly bored, she turned her whole body to face Steve. “Jesus, Rogers. I’m not doubting your manly prowess. You’re built like some kind of fucking machine.  Clint ended up actually liking you anyway – trust me, nobody could have seen that coming. But there are some things muscles can’t fight.”

“What? Natasha, do you always talk in riddles?”

“Only to those stupid enough to listen. And stop blushing Rogers, people swear in the real world, get used to it.”

And with that, she walked away, obviously expecting Steve to follow, leaving him stranded with a bright red face at his locker before he realised that she’d moved at all. It wasn’t his fault, really – it wasn’t that people didn’t swear in his old school, it was just that it was rare, and when it did happen, the guy who said it got made to run a mile in the rain or something equally ridiculous. And when it did happen, it was never a girl. 

Although, upon reflection, Natasha wasn’t really like any girl Steve had ever met. He jogged a little to catch up with her. 

“So what do you mean, ‘the biggest problem’? Is there some legendary school bully I need to be worried about? Someone going to try and trip me up in the corridors – stick my head in the sink? ”

Natasha snorted – another example of her being really quite unlike the girls Steve had come to know. “I don’t think anyone’s going to bully you, do you?” Steve blushed again, Natasha rolled her eyes without missing a step, turned a corner. Steve stumbled to keep up. “No, no bullies, not in the way you’re thinking. Just…” she slowed to a stop, returning to leaning on the nearest locker. Steve moved over to stand next to her, watching that smile return to her face. 

“What? What did I miss?” He scanned the corridor. Natasha looked up at him, still smirking.

“Right on cue. Watch and learn, Rogers – this is exactly the kind of guy you need to worry about more than Clint – and exactly the kind of guy you do not want to be.” 

She cocked her head, indicating a scene behind him. Steve turned, screwing up his face at the sight. 

This school was too weird.

At the other end of the corridor there was a boy, no older than Steve, standing with his chin in the air and grinning. His hair was dark and messy, spread haphazardly across his head and apparently purposefully so, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses despite the fact that they were all, very clearly, indoors. He was dressed in what appeared to be a very expensive suit – an actual suit, in a school -, grey, slightly metallic and beyond tacky from where Steve was standing, a white shirt and dark grey tie underneath. The cut looked tailored, though – it ran smoothly down his arms and legs, cutting in at the waist where he’d fastened the jacket – definitely way out of Steve’s budget, anyway. He was making his way down the corridor leisurely, some kind of entourage in tow and – Steve could barely believe it – waving to the students he passed. Even worse, the younger students seemed to be taking pictures of him.

Taking pictures. 

“Who is that guy? What’ve I missed?”

Steve was pretty sure he was gawping at this point, thanks to the thoroughly amused expression Natasha was now wearing. 

She arched an eyebrow, wicked smile playing with her lips. “Why, Rogers? You impressed?”

Steve’s eyes snapped back down to meet hers. “No! I – erm, no.” He stammered, earning an amused huff from Natasha as she turned back to watch the boy. “Why is everyone taking pictures?” 

Natasha shrugged. “The freshmen like it when there’s a celebrity in our midst. Thing is, when you’ve been here as long as I have, it gets kind of old.”

Steve’s face contorted as he watched the boy shoot imaginary guns from his fingertips at a bunch of swooning young girls, illustrating Natasha’s point perfectly. “Celebrity?”

Natasha hummed. “Never heard of him? Jeez, you really were out of the loop, weren't you? That, my friend, is Tony Stark.”

To Steve, she might as well have been speaking Swahili.

“Who?”

Natasha looked up at Steve, one eyebrow raised again. She looked so judgemental like that. “Seriously? His Dad runs – well, ran Stark Industries, massive technological hoohah up here in reality. You know, with phones and computers and electricity?”

Steve pursed his lips, choosing not to rise to that. “Is that it? The son of some electrician guy?”

Natasha let out a sharp laugh. “Howard Stark was the most famous engineer of his day – the guy was a billionaire. Revolutionised the way we use technology and made a ton of cash to boot. That huge tower that’s invading the New York skyline? That’s Stark’s – that’s his headquarters, his legacy. And that kid,” Natasha cocked her head towards the boy – Tony, apparently, “is his only son. Used to be in the press all the time. Kind of a big deal. Filthy rich – like seriously, it’s actually dirty how much money that kid has.”

Her face fell into a sneer. “Of course, the guy’s mostly a jerk, so it all balances out.”

Steve frowned a little at that, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Hey, don’t corrupt me before I’ve met him. I’m sure he’s perfectly nice once you get to know him.”

Natasha looked at him, narrowed her eyes. “Suit yourself.”

He looked away, back at the boy who had stopped, pushed his mirrored glasses to the end of his nose and was peering over them at a bunch of blushing, giggling girls, a roguish grin on his face. “Jeez,” Steve said, his frown deepening. “He seems to know everyone.”

Natasha hummed beside him. “Don’t go getting ideas – I warned you, that is a guy you don’t want to be. You don’t want him to know you. Trust me on that.”

Steve screwed up his face as Tony started to move again. If this guy was so well known here, then maybe he should make an effort – if there’s one thing he’d always been taught, it was politeness. And decency. It wouldn’t do for Steve not to follow the apparent etiquette of the school – and besides, it seemed to Steve that Natasha didn’t take kindly to many people, so it was likely that Tony wasn’t as bad as she was making out.

“Maybe I should go introduce myself.” Steve didn’t look at Natasha, fearing her reaction a little. Turned out, he didn’t need to – the scoff that escaped her mouth was loud enough.

“Are you sure you’re not a little impressed, soldier? I mean, I’ve never seen it, but I’ve been told Stark’s got a certain dark-eyed charm about him… not that you’d tell under those ridiculous sunglasses he insists on wearing. But introductions? No, I wouldn’t bother.”

Steve had begun to splutter again at the mention of him being ‘impressed’, as Natasha put it. “No! Will you stop? He’s not… I’m not… No, okay?”

He didn’t need to look to know she was smiling up at him, thin lips pulled tight and mischievous, knowing glint in her eye. Steve huffed. Well, whatever she thought she knew, she was certainly absolutely incorrect. 

He decided to change the subject.

“So, who’s that?”

Steve gestured towards the girl walking next to Tony, who seemed to be the only one not fawning all over him. She was taller than Tony, thin and willowy, with poker-straight strawberry blonde hair that feel to her shoulders and a poker-straight expression of clear boredom on her face to boot, regarding Tony like she was his long-suffering mother. She tapped away at her phone and sighed disapprovingly as Tony winked at one of the students in the corridor.

“The girl? That’s Pepper Potts.” Natasha replied dismissively. “She’s basically Stark’s handler. He calls her a friend, I call her an assigned supervisor. To be honest, I don’t know how she even puts up with him. No need to worry about her.” She paused, eyes widening minutely for no more than a fraction of a second. 

“Oh no… look away, Rogers – abort, abort, abort – “

She collapsed in on herself, leaning against the lockers and looking up at Steve with such urgency that his attention was momentarily entirely taken up by her and her obvious need of help and oh, God, what was Steve supposed to do?

“What? Natasha, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Don’t move, Rogers. Don’t move at all.”

Steve frowned. “What? Natasha, I-“

He was cut off by a groan, a roll of her pretty grey eyes, and a loud exert from somebody else’s entirely different conversation.

“… So I said to her – hey, how’re you doing? I know, I know, it’s great to be back – I said to her, I know, I know you’re the President’s daughter, but I do actually have a queue of people who are seeking my – much sought after, incidentally – hey, hey there! It’s good to see you too, guy I don’t know! – my much sought after attention, so get in line, sweetcheeks, and no cutting – Pepper are you listening to me?”

A distracted, noncommittal ‘hmm’ followed, and suddenly Steve was inches from Tony Stark, his new school’s resident celebrity. And all that Steve could think about?

Man, this guy looked taller at the other end of the corridor.

Steve couldn’t help it – he stared. Stared down. There was a good four inches of nothing but air between his head and the meticulously-styled mess atop of Tony’s. Steve suddenly felt an awful lot like those freshmen snapping pictures of Tony as he walked down the corridor – he had a sort of curious magnetism about him, it seemed, that just demanded Steve’s attention. Whether it was the expensive clothes, the enigma-style sunglasses or the snippets of conversation about the president’s daughter, Steve didn’t know, but he found himself looking at Tony and wanting to talk to him, to get to know him, to find out who he was.

He opened his mouth to introduce himself, but it soon became clear that Tony wasn’t interested in him. No, his attention was entirely elsewhere.

“’Morning, Miss. Romanov. Settling into the new term okay? Get up to much over the summer? Still rocking the ‘I could kill you sitting down with one hand tied to the chair’ look?” 

Tony’s grin was metallic and sharp, wicked and charming all in one, the kind of smile that Steve bet would have the entirety of the freshmen swooning even further. He peered at Natasha over his glasses, apparently not even noticing all six-foot-one of Steve. 

Natasha certainly looked like she could kill Tony with one hand – a dark, cold, seething anger radiating from her eyes with such clarity that it really was surprising that Tony wasn’t cowering behind the water fountain. It was taking a lot of effort for Steve to stay put, and he wasn’t even facing the brunt of it.

Tony didn’t seem fazed. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad look. Not many people could pull it off, I mean, but you – with the leather and the…” he gestured aimlessly at her face “and the you know, killer abs, it kind of suits you. Didn’t once suggest that-“

“You’re in my way, Stark.” Her voice was low, testing him. She still hadn’t moved. Steve, once again, resisted the urge to run away, despite the fact he was starting to feel a little invisible, his patience waning. “And actually, I could do it with both hands tied to the chair.”

Tony’s smile just grew, if possible, wider. “Didn’t doubt you for a second. Listen, Romanov.” He leaned on the locker beside her, which would have succeeded in entirely blocking Steve from the conversation if he hadn’t been able to see straight over the boy’s head. Steve frowned, but Tony didn’t even register his presence, sparking a twinge of annoyance in Steve’s gut. “Listen. I’m bored of this game, okay? This… dance, we’ve got going on. I mean, we’ve known each other, what… four years now? I mean please… surely senior year is gonna be the year we give in to what clearly is raging and pure sexual chemistry here-“

For the first time, Steve noticed the girl – Pepper Potts, Natasha had said – standing behind Tony, who proceeded to make herself known by groaning loudly. “Jesus, Tony, cut it out.”

Tony ignored her. Natasha ignored him. Steve agreed. This guy was pushing the line, now, hounding Natasha like this. Heck, she was the only almost-friend Steve had managed to make in this place, and even that was through an assignation, so he wasn’t going to let her be walked on by some jumped-up playground celebrity.

He was starting to see what Natasha meant about the whole ‘jerk’ thing, as Tony continued to lean in front of Steve, leaning closer to Natasha.

“No? Nothing?” He tilted his head. “Well, if you change your mind, honey, here’s how to find me, it’s changed since last time…” He reached inside his blazer pocket and pulled something out, reaching out to tuck it into Natasha’s top jacket pocket. Natasha still hadn’t moved, looked like she’d been switched off, still glaring pain and death in the general direction of Tony Stark but apparently unwilling to get him the heck out of her way.

So Steve did what he thought was rational, given the situation.

He caught hold of Tony’s arm, expensive metallic suit and all. 

“Excuse me, sir. But I think the lady’s made herself quite clear.”

Instantly, Tony swivelled round as if manoeuvring through a complicated ballroom dance move, wrist still caught in Steve’s hand, suit twisting round in his grip. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose and he looked up at Steve with wide, disbelieving eyes, reminiscent of a cartoon character. Steve kept his face neutral and let Tony’s wrist drop.

“Sorry.” He added.

Tony gawped. “Excuse me?” His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes were narrowed, now, as if daring Steve to make a move.

Given how much he’d just been resolutely ignored, given how the guy had just gone against every rule Steve knew about talking to people, never mind girls, he was willing to take that dare.

He straightened up to his full height, shoulders wide. “Like I said, I think the lady said no, and I think it’s better for everyone if you just move on.”

Behind Tony, Natasha let out a small huff and looked to the ceiling, then to Steve, her expression all too easy to read. It said, quite clearly; “What the hell are you doing?” 

It caught Steve off-guard, his expression melting to one of confusion. Couldn’t she tell? He was helping her, clearly. Getting rid of-

“Huh. Well, nice way to make yourself known, new kid.” Tony paused, surveying Steve with narrowed eyes. “I’ll see you around, I guess. Laters, Romanov.”

And he stalked off without looking back, Pepper following with a long-suffering look of regret on her face.

Immediately, Natasha’s expression became audible. “What the hell was that?”

Now Steve was on the business end of her glare. He blushed. “I – I, erm – I thought –“

“You thought I couldn’t handle it? You thought I couldn’t handle a bottom-feeder like Tony Stark?”

He failed to find any words in his entire brain. “I – I just, erm –“

Natasha’s patience seemed to snap – not that anyone would be able to tell, her masked expression remaining deadly neutral all the time. Without another word, she turned on her heels and walked away.

Steve got the feeling he wasn’t supposed to follow this time.

 ---

The time finally came for the thing Steve had been waiting for since his first meeting in Fury’s office, having finally found the classroom he was meant to be at, once he’d got lost a good few times without Natasha’s help, since he’d apparently offended her.

He didn’t get it, really. All he’d done was get that guy off her back – he was being all slimy, all touchy-feely, and Steve knew that that wasn’t how you treated someone, especially a lady. Besides, he’d sparked annoyance in Steve from the very moment he’d ignored his presence and elbowed past him in his stupid shiny suit.

But it was okay, he knew that he’d be okay, because his next lesson was the one he’d been waiting for. 

Fine art. 

Steve knew that despite everything, despite feeling so out of depth in this whole new world and despite upsetting his only acquaintance and despite all of the upheaval in his life over the past year, when he got a pencil in his hand, things would be better. A pencil, paper – those things were familiar, friendly, reminded him of his life before everything got so damn complicated. When him and Bucky used to sit in the courtyard of the school, Bucky going on about his latest attempted conquest with one of the girls in the other part of the school, Steve sketching the trees, or other people sitting in the space, or even Bucky himself.

He hadn’t picked up any kind of drawing materials since all this had started, and he couldn’t wait to start again.

Of course, it probably wasn’t the best first impression to turn up late to your first lesson, but Steve couldn’t help it, not really – the art classrooms were in an entirely different building, how was he meant to know that? 

Still, as he pushed the door open slowly, a litany of “Sorry, sir, I’m so sorry I’m late, I got lost, I’m new, I’m sorry” escaped his lips, along with a faint pink blush rising on his cheeks at the entire classes’ faces staring at him from their seats and the fact that he’d just called his very clearly female teacher ‘sir’.

She smiled faintly, gesturing to the rest of the class. “Not a problem – Mr Rogers, is it? Please, take a seat.”

Oh, crap.

In every class he’d been in so far, he’d gotten there early, thanks to Natasha, and just waited for people to sit next to him. Now he had to choose where to sit. 

He scanned the faces of the class quickly, looking for someone even vaguely familiar – 

There was a boy with short, brown hair on one of the back desks, doodling absently on the desk with one hand, drumming on it with the other, wearing a black t shirt with the sleeves ripped off and entirely not paying attention.

Steve quickly marched to the back row and sat down on the same table. He looked up, his eyes narrowing in confusion, before grinning, much to Steve’s relief.

“Steve! Hi – didn’t know you’d be taking art.”

Steve smiled awkwardly. “Hi, Clint. You… you don’t mind, do you?”

He gestured vaguely across the table. “Be my guest. Have a seat. Welcome to Casa de Barton – in this room, anyway.”

The teacher was walking around the room now, explaining their still life for today, just to get them started. Steve reached down into his bag and pulled out his pad and pencils just as she reached their table, putting the plant down.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She stopped and smiled at him. “You’re welcome. You know, you’re the only one who said that.” She turned and walked away, giving Steve a full view of Clint’s disbelieving expression opposite him.

“Seriously? Dude, what even are you? Some kind of ultra-polite cyborg or something?”

Steve smiled, picking a pencil, not quite sure what to say to that. “Um... no?”

Clint didn’t seem all that convinced, dragging a pencil from his pocket and flicking open his book, a questioning look still in his eyes. He hummed. “Well, we’ll see, I guess.” He said it so seriously that Steve didn’t even laugh, didn’t want to offend him about something which he apparently genuinely believed to be possible. “So, how come you’re late? Natasha stood you up?”

Steve tried not to wince. “We – uh, we kind of had a falling out, I think.”

As Steve started to draw, avoiding Clint’s eyes, Clint started to chew on the end of his pencil. He stopped to give a low whistle. “You think? Wouldn’t like to be you, my friend.”

Steve glanced up at him and grimaced. “Really? Oh, god.”

Clint grinned around his pencil. “So go on, what’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Steve said indignantly, not bothering to look up this time. “I was helping her out – there was some lowlife harassing her, so I-“

“Oh no.” He dragged the word out, forcing Steve to look up at him – he was rolling his pencil in his fingers and slowly shaking his head, lips tightly pursed and pity in his eyes. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“You… tried to defend her, right?”

“Well, yeah-“

Clint hissed. “Oh no.”

Steve put down his pencil, frowning deeper. “What? What’ve I done?”

“Oh no, oh no, oh no oh no, ohnoohnoohno-“

“Clint!”

The other boy just smiled. “You’re so dead.”

Steve let out his breath in a huff. “What?”

Clint’s smile didn’t falter. “So dead!” He sang, chewing on his pencil for a moment before waving his hand at Steve and shaking his head. “I’m kidding, honestly, dude, relax, I’m kidding. But you’re not going to be in her good books for a while – Nat’s basically one of those strong independent black women you see in films, only with a black belt in just about everything and well, not black.” He put on a terrible southern accent and clicked. “She don’t need no man, gurl.”

Steve tried to form words a few times before succeeding, his brain still trying to process what he’d just seen. “…What?”

Clint laughed. Steve failed to see what at, starting to wonder whether he’d made the right decision sitting on the same table as someone who was, quite clearly, a maniac. “She likes to stick up for herself, to be honest. Mainly because she can. You defending her honour like that – it’s probably dented her pride a bit, that’s all. She likes to prove she’s no damsel in distress.”

“I know she’s not a damsel in distress…” Steve said quietly, laying his pencil on the paper. “I only wanted to help-“ 

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t get all kicked puppy look on me, she’ll get over it. It’ll just take her a couple of days – listen, Rogers, if she didn’t want you around, she’d have ditched you by now, trust me. Fuck knows why, but she seems to have taken a liking to you. You donning your shining armour won’t have made a shit to that – just, keep it in the closet next time, yeah?”

Steve rolled his pencil around, still not looking up at Clint, and hummed. Finally, Clint started to draw. 

“So go on, who was it that made you ride on in on your noble steed, soldier?”

Steve glanced up at him, still rolling his pencil between his fingers. He let a huff of a laugh escape. “Stark, his name was. Tony – I think?”

Clint grinned again and whistled low, looking at Steve with amused eyes. “Tony Stark? You sound unsure – you’ve heard of him, though, right?”

Deciding that he’d spent enough time worrying the pencil and worrying about Natasha, Steve started to draw again. “Not until this morning.” He admitted, looking at the plant rather than at Clint’s reaction. 

Turned out, he didn’t have to look.

“Well, fuck me. You seriously did live in a whole other time down there didn’t you?”

Steve tried not to wince at the language, but he doubted he succeeded from the amused expression still on Clint’s face. Steve shrugged. “I know who he is now – doesn’t seem like that much of a deal to me. His dad runs some company, right?”

That was enough to make Clint put his pencil down again. “Seriously? Some company?” Clint was gawping at him, so Steve offered him a small smile. It made no difference. “Stark Industries isn’t just any company – it’s a multi-million dollar franchise. And Howard Stark ran it, yeah. Before the crash.”

An icy jolt snapped down Steve’s spine. He looked up at Clint, his hand tightening around his pencil. “Crash?”

“Yeah.” Clint said, nonplussed, apparently unaware of Steve’s reaction. “Howard and Maria Stark died about a year and a half ago in a car crash – why else do you think Tony would be slumming it with us?”

A horrible, sickening feeling spread through Steve’s stomach as he felt his nails dig in to his palm around the pencil. The boy’s parents were dead.

“I don’t understand.” Steve admitted. Clint leaned back in his chair, tipping it back on to two legs and gesturing at Steve with his pencil.

“That was in the will, see. Surely Natasha told you that Stark was filthy rich? The kid’s fucking loaded, man. But he’s in state school, haven’t you noticed?” Steve frowned. Clint grinned. “Howard said that if he and Maria weren’t around to keep Tony ‘grounded’,” he put air quotes around the word, “then he had to go to a state school in New York. Hence, we’ve got him.”

Steve stared back at the paper he was meant to be drawing on, his brows pulling together. Tony had been uprooted from his life after the death of his parents and moved to this strange school for reasons he couldn’t control.

If there was one thing Steve understood, it was how that felt. 

He felt sick.

Clint didn’t seem to notice.

“Of course, he didn’t come without a fight – I can’t believe the story didn’t travel, it was a huge scandal up here. But in the end, he had to come, they had to do as his father said ‘cause he’s under 18, whether his father’s alive or not. It was no secret that Stark would have rather been anywhere else but here when he joined us, but you’d never tell – he turned up on his first day, Armani suit and stupid Ray-Bans, and took the girls - and most of the boys – by storm. And now, I guess, he’s some fucking King of the Corridors, harassing Natasha every chance he gets and making everyone wish that Howard Stark had kept his huge moustachioed mouth shut… Rogers, are you okay?”

Steve wasn’t okay. He was the exact opposite of okay. Tony’s story had dredged up far, far too many awful memories and parallels between his life and Steve’s own, and the thought knocked the wind out of him – Steve felt empty again, an intense pain for the first time in a while as he remembered his own situation, and an overwhelming wash of guilt for judging this swaggering, dark-haired boy before he’d really, truly understood anything about him at all. 

He could have told Clint this. He probably could have opened up to the boy, and he would have been fine with it – a little creeped out maybe, but probably fine; Clint seemed genuine enough, and nice enough. But they’d known each other for a day, no more, so instead, Steve forced an undoubtedly weak smile and said “Sure, I’m fine”.

Clint didn’t look convinced, eyeing Steve carefully and chewing on his pencil again. Steve didn’t fancy carrying the conversation further, didn’t particularly want to hear more about the death of Tony Stark’s parents and apparently how much of a jerk he was, and so continued to draw in silence.

They stayed like that for the rest of the lesson. 

*** 

Unsurprisingly, neither Clint nor Steve were finished by the end of the lesson, thanks to the slight detour in the form of Tony Stark’s life story. But, whilst Clint chose to disappear as fast as humanly possible (possibly faster) at the end of the lesson before the teacher caught him, Steve insisted to her that he’d be back at break time to finish his drawing. She’d told him not to bother, that it was only a warm up exercise anyway, but it wasn’t like Steve had anywhere else to be – he hadn’t seen Natasha since she’d stormed away that morning, and he didn’t count on seeing her any time soon, with Clint or without.

What Steve didn’t expect upon returning to his classroom at morning break was a note in hastily scrawled letters, pinned to his desk.

‘Just had a run in with Nat – must be her time of the month, if you ask me, ‘cause she got all pissy with me too. Meet you in the gym at lunch if you’ve got nowhere else to be, and we can hide from her together. 

Clint.’

He didn’t try to stop the smile that spread across his face, as there was nobody around to see it anyway. It seemed that he wasn’t that bad at this whole ‘making friends’ lark, after all – not that Clint could exactly be counted as a friend yet but hey, it was a start. 

As he folded it up to put in his pocket, he noticed something scribbled on the back, too. It looked like a hurriedly drawn map of the school, with dark, direct arrows following the sketchy pathways and leading to a square marked ‘gym’. Below, there was another note in Clint’s writing.

‘Seeing as you lost your tour guide to Stark – can’t have you getting too lost now, Fury’d have my ass on a plate.’ 

So that was how Steve found himself wandering around campus almost aimlessly at the beginning of lunchtime, trying his best to follow Clint’s so-called map, which turned out to be really quite inaccurate. He had to stop and ask sniggering students for directions on more than one occasion, but eventually he found himself facing the clean, white building corresponding with the square on the paper Clint had left, all sharp angles and glass doors.

“Fancy.” Steve said quietly to nobody in particular as he pushed open the door. 

Thankfully, it wasn’t difficult to find the men’s locker room – still, Clint wasn’t there when he arrive. Steve, obviously, didn’t have any gym clothes with him, but he’d come anyway, since once again, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He sat on the bench and pulled his legs up off the floor, settling in to wait for Clint.

He sat there, alone, for a good fifteen minutes, before deciding that Clint could find him when he finally got there, and that it wouldn’t hurt to explore. 

The first room he found was the main gym, luckily, so Steve went inside. There was nobody else in there, just cold, clean walls lined with mirrors and shining, metal machines; treadmills, cross trainers, bikes along one wall and every kind of weight possible on the other, with a bench at the end for the biggest ones. 

Steve ran his fingers along the cold surface of the weight machine closest to him and let out a low “Jeez”. This stuff was brand new, barely used, top of the range – why wasn’t anyone in here?

“Ah! A companion? I am not acquainted to sharing the gym with another at lunchtime.”

Steve spun around at the voice, fully expecting to be thrown forcefully from the gym by a seven foot lunatic. 

Turned out he was only half right. 

There was a boy, standing in the doorway, even taller than Steve (which was no mean feat), with shoulder-length blonde hair and the beginnings of a matching beard. His shoulders were like a bull’s, and his shorts and t shirt left little of his musculature to the imagination, not that he seemed to care as he strode through the gym, towel slung over his shoulder. However, he didn’t look like he was about to throw Steve anywhere – he wore an ear-to-ear, slightly manic grin, making his bright blue eyes crinkle at the edges. 

“Oh, I’m sorry – I was just looking-“

“My friend!” He boomed, sitting on the bench. His voice was deep, with an air of authority, and his accent wasn’t American – British, maybe? Somewhere in Europe, Steve was sure. “I was not insinuating that you leave – of course not, it is a most pleasant surprise to find someone here! I am usually the only one, you see.” He reached Steve – his smile was blinding up close. Steve shifted nervously despite himself – where was Clint? “I am Thor; it is a great pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Then he did something Steve completely didn’t expect.

He held out his hand for Steve to shake. 

Steve couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he let out a little laugh and took Thor’s hand warmly and forcefully and shook it firmly. “I’m Steve.” He said, still smiling. “Steve Rogers. I’m new.”

Thor nodded slowly as he let Steve’s hand go, a contemplative expression on his face. “I thought I did not recognise you – of course, I, myself, do not know everyone in this school by any means, yet. It is a large place, is it not? I fear I know exactly how you are feeling, friend – I was in your situation just last year.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “You’re new too?”

Thor grinned again. “You haven’t guessed that I do not hail from these parts?” Steve shrugged, smiling – Thor continued. “My brother and I moved to this country, and this school, last year. I feel quite at home now, of course, as I’m sure you will in time,” Thor’s grin faded, his expression clouding over, “though, I fear that I cannot say the same for Loki…”

Steve chewed his lip, trying to think of something to say, when once again, he was interrupted. 

“Aw,” came a call from the entrance, “look at you, making friends. Ain’t it sweet!”

Steve turned to see Clint, dressed in gym clothes, strolling in, grin on his face, towel slung over his shoulder, looking at Steve like a proud mother. Steve gave what he hoped looked like a sarcastic smile - Thor, on the other hand, apparently found this hilarious. All concern from his face disappeared in an instant, long forgotten, and he let out what could only be described as a long, loud guffaw, throwing his head back with seemingly unadulterated glee.

Steve jumped about a foot in the air, thankful that Thor couldn't see. Clint, however, did see, and gave a sly snicker as he hung his towel on a treadmill.

"Clinton, my friend!" Thor shouted, striding over to where Clint stood and capturing him in an embrace which must have cracked at least three of Clint's ribs. Thor held him tight, trapping Clint's arms at his side and making his eyes bulge a little, before releasing him and swinging an arm around his shoulder, still grinning manically.

"Good to see you too, big guy." Clint said, only a little winded.

Steve coughed back a laugh at Clint, who was trying to discreetly get his breath back. "You two know each other, then?"

Thor's grin hadn't yet faltered. "Of course! As I said, I usually spend my lunch hour here, alone, or with fair Jane - but it is a fine day indeed when Clint joins me in the gym." His grip tightened around Clint's shoulder momentarily - real panic flashed across Clint's eyes at the thought of another hug. Steve managed to keep his laughter in check, just about.

"Aw, buddy, you're making me blush." Clint replied, earning another booming laugh from Thor and a forceful pat on the shoulder which nearly knocked Clint over. Steve grinned, but Clint shot him a look - a look which clearly said 'do not even think about laughing at me'.

Steve couldn't really help it.

"Am I to assume that you have met Steve too, then, Clint?" Thor asked, his arm still around Clint. Clint looked up to him - and it was looking up, the height difference between the two of them was astounding.

"Yeah, yeah, we met yesterday - Steve's new, you know."

Thor nodded. "We have spoken. I have assured him that this strange place will feel like home soon enough." 

Thor said it so casually, still grinning, so easily and warmly and friendly that in that moment, Steve believed him. 

He let go of Clint, then, walking back over to the weight machine where his towel lay. "We have only a fraction of our lunch break left, gentlemen!" He said as he reached it, sitting down, still smiling. "Shall we get on with it?"

\--- 

It hadn't been all that fun, watching Clint and Thor work out, so Steve had taken so sitting on the windowledge with his sketchbook, drawing snippets of the outside world, quietly watching the lives of passers by. It'd been nice - still, he made a mental note to bring gym clothes next time, and was grateful when the bell for the end of lunch came around.

His afternoon lessons passed without incident - and, of course, without Natasha - and soon enough he found himself at his locker once more, having survived a second day in the whirlwind that apparently normal people called 'school'. 

Of course, it'd been a little more difficult without Natasha, but it would have been a lie to say Steve wasn't a little proud of himself. He was managing pretty well, all things considered - he had people he could talk to, that maybe one day he could call friends, he hadn't got too horrifically lost, and nobody was asking awkward questions yet, like 'where'd you come from?' or 'why'd you leave your last school?'

Steve hoped that day never came, but somewhere in the dark depths of his mind, he knew it was only a matter of time.

He shut his locker and swung his backpack over his shoulder, starting to join the stream of students filtering out through the main door, when something - no, someone hit him.

"Woah, woah! Sorry, dude - hey, it wasn't my fault, you want someone to blame, you blame that guy-"

Steve turned to tell the guy that no, really, it was okay, walking into him was clearly an accident, only to come face to face with his own reflection in Tony Stark's mirrored sunglasses. 

His forgiving words didn't make it out of his mouth in time, as Tony slowly pulled off his sunglasses and looked Steve up and down with dark, questioning eyes and a cocky half-smile.

"Well, look who it is. Sorry buddy, didn't recognise you without your shining armour there." He grinned, obviously amused by his own joke. Steve rolled his eyes and made to turn away.

Tony grabbed his shoulder. "Hey there sweetcheeks, what you turning away from me for? Don't you know who I am?" His smile didn't fade even slightly as he slid his sunglasses back up his nose, running his hand through his hair. Steve looked at him in disbelief.

"I've been told, actually."

Tony let out a short laugh. "Damn straight you have. 'Sup, anyway, Prince Charming? No damsels in distress to rescue?"

Steve glanced at him before turning away again. Why was he even talking to him? "Sorry, I was just on my way-"

"Hey! Hey Tony! What's the matter, short ass? Legs ain't long enough to keep up?"

Steve looked up to see a tall, dark-skinned boy a little way in front of them, grinning over at Tony and holding a basketball in the air.

Tony suddenly lost all interest in Steve. "Oh, that is it. Who you calling short, jackass? What, you don't think I can take you, Rhodes?"

The other boy grinned, turning and beginning to dribble the basketball away, as Tony broke into a run to catch up with him without sending Steve so much as a goodbye.

Well, that was weird. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's another chapter :) thankyou to all my commenters, and i'm sorry these updates take so long!  
> also LOOK! PLOT!  
> ooooooh, shiny.  
> (again, if anything is wrong on the american front, please let me know, as i am clearly not american and thus have no idea ahahaha)

By the time the weekend rolled around, Steve was suitably exhausted.

He found himself still in bed at 11 o’clock on Saturday morning, blearily regaining consciousness having completely slept through his alarm. He was meant to be up by now, meant to have eaten breakfast, helped his Grandma… as soon as he was awake enough to realise where he was, Steve all but leapt out of the bed, still in pyjamas, and headed straight down the stairs.

By the time he reached the kitchen, there was already a litany of apologies streaming from his lips.

“…sorry I’m really sorry I overslept have you had breakfast I’ll make breakfast what do you want I’m so sorry I know I said I’d make it-“

“Steve.”

Steve stopped rooting in the fridge and turned to face the old woman sitting at the table, his ears a little pink. His grandmother was smiling at him delicately, a cup of tea in her hand and a plate of crusts in front of her.

“…Oh. I’m-“

“Don’t dare say you’re sorry, young man.” She fixed him with a stare and gestured to a seat opposite her. Steve sat. “I’m old, I’m not an invalid. _I’m_ meant to look after _you_. Now, I know you can pretty much do thatyourself… but you don’t need to do everything for me, okay?” She smiled. “There’s still some kick in me yet.”

Steve smiled bashfully upwards at her. “Sorry.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. He couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh.

“I might have made my breakfast, but you can still get your own.”

Steve laughed a little louder this time, heading to the cupboard and pulling out a jar of instant coffee. Switching on the kettle, he turned around to face his grandma and leapt up to sit on the counter. She gave him a look.

"I've told you about that."

Steve grinned. "I'm not going to break the counter, grandma."

She didn't look so sure, but took a sip of her tea anyway, before returning to her smile. "So, tell me about school then."

"I've been telling you all week. It's fine, really. It's great."

The old woman hummed. "So you say. Have you made friends?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Grandma-"

"Steven. Have you made friends?"

He couldn't help but laugh a little at that. "I'm not six, you know." He smiled at her. Her expression didn't change. He sighed. "Yes, I've made friends."

And the funny thing was, he wasn't lying.

He'd spent four out of five lunches that week with Clint - one lunchtime he was on some kind of job for Fury that Steve didn't want to find out too much about - and four out of five with Thor. They'd accepted him into their little 'gym club', Steve thought, they laughed when Clint tried to benchpress the same weight as Thor, cringed when random girls in the gym giggled behind them for no apparent reason... yeah, that was definitely the beginnings of a friendship, Steve was sure.

So, if Natasha hadn't spoken to him since that first day, it didn't matter.

So Steve kept telling himself. But still, he couldn't get her off his mind. She'd been the first person to actually be nice to him in that place, and she hadn't even given him a chance to apologise, he hadn't even _seen_ her since- it was like she'd just melted into the shadows after their fight.

Either that, or she was just actively ignoring him.

He didn’t really want to consider that option.

His grandma seemed pleased, though. “Good! I’m glad – I worried, you know, you seemed so shy-“

Steve rolled his eyes as the kettle started to whistle. “Grandma.”

She held up her hands. “I’m sorry. But I was. But you’ve got somebody to talk to, yes? In every lesson?”

Steve scoffed softly and slid off the counter to make his coffee. “Yes. In _every_ lesson.”

Which was mostly true. But seriously, that was a big ask. He had Clint in art, and he was amiable enough with the people near him in other lessons… the only problem, really, was Math.

Bruce Banner – as Steve learned was his name – hadn’t said a word to Steve since their first lesson. And they’d had math three times that week.

It wasn’t for lack of trying on Steve’s part, oh no – he’d been as friendly as he could be, greeting the boy warmly as they both sat down, trying to strike up conversations, even if they were math-related; but still, Bruce remained on the other end of the bench, two seats away from Steve, and never moved closer.

And still, he had things thrown at him, both literal objects and cruel words, every lesson. The other kids in the class apparently found this terribly amusing. One would say something in Banner’s general direction, something like “Hey, Banner, didn’t we tell you you weren’t wanted here?” or just general – remarkably uncreative – insults, and the others would laugh like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. They’d aim things at his head as he walked to and from his seat - but he didn’t pay them any attention, books hugged to his chest, head down, eyes fixed on his destination.

Each lesson Steve had checked if he was okay, offered to go and talk to the kids doing this.

Each lesson Bruce had quickly shook his head, pushed his glasses up his nose and got on with his Math.

When Steve asked Clint about the strange boy in his class, Clint had simply snorted.

“That’s one wacky kettle of fish there, Stevie. I wouldn’t go poking around in it if I were you.”

Still, Steve had already resolved to not give up until he at least knew what the boy’s voice sounded like.

His grandma was humming her approval, cradling her tea in both hands. “And nobody’s bothering you?”

With his back to her, Steve didn’t even bother rolling his eyes this time, just smiled to himself at the old woman’s concern. He turned, smile still on his face, coffee in hand. “No, grandma, please – I’m _fine._ ”

She smiled up at him, seemingly satisfied.

Steve appreciated her concern, he really did – she was sweet, caring, and she did what she could for him. But there was a definite niggling sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Even if someone _was_ bothering Steve (the self-assured smirk of Tony Stark flashed into his mind before he could stop it), he wouldn’t tell her. After all, what could she do about it? She was, what… 82, 83? Steve had known from the second he’d moved in that the last thing she’d needed was a teenage boy hanging around her house, dragging along with him all the problems that came with adolescence. But he’d been forced there, there’d been no question about it – and so when it became apparent, over the summer, that she clearly needed his help more than he needed hers, Steve had quietly done so, making her breakfast, cleaning the house, fixing the garden. He drove his grandad’s (a man who he’d never met, but never thought to ask about – the one time he’d gestured to a picture of him, his grandma had had to fight back the tears) old pick-up truck, a dusty, barely-working car which Steve was sure used to be bright red, to the grocery store on Saturdays and filled up the fridge with enough food for both himself and his grandma for the rest of the week. Sometimes, she cooked – and her cooking was _amazing_ – but when she was too tired, Steve did it.

Because he had to.

Not once had Steve complained about being carted off to the outskirts of New York to live with an old woman who could barely look after herself, never mind him, because he knew that she was _trying,_ and he could see that having contact with him gave her genuine happiness. And Steve liked that.

That didn’t change the fact that when his grandma had gone to bed at night, he sat up, looking through a photo album he’d brought with him, filled with pictures of his old life; Bucky, Peggy, the team, his parents…

It would be a lie to say he’d never cried. But the tears were less frequent now – much less frequent. And Steve would never, ever admit to even _having_ the photographs, never mind crying over them.

Because this was his life now, and nothing, not any complaining, especially not _crying_ , could change any of that. Still, he clung to his memories secretly, keeping them firmly locked away from the rest of this crazy new world, some semblance of sanity in a precious glass case in the back of his mind. They were his, nobody else’s. And if he could keep hold of that, then he’d be fine. As long as nobody knew where he’d come from, Steve could start his life afresh, relating only to his life in the Southwest as a long-forgotten happy dream.

Logically, he knew that wasn’t going to happen. But he could try, at least.

So Steve looked after his grandma, and he drove to school in his rusty pickup, and he resolved to try and get his grades, so that when the time came, he could go back.

He didn’t mind, not really. Because for now, he’d have to make do.

“So, come on, Steve – I want to hear about this celebrity again. I can’t believe you’re at school with a _Stark_!”

Besides, he could definitely think of worse places to live.

* * *

Two weeks later, the thing that Steve had been waiting for most finally happened.

He was walking to Spanish class with Clint – Clint, who wasn’t actually in the class, but was hoping to catch a glimpse of Natasha, who still hadn’t spoken to either of them. She’d been on the roll call for the class since the beginning of term, and yet hadn’t turned up to a single class.

When Steve had suggested that it was his fault, Clint had laughed straight in his face. “Don’t flatter yourself, dude. She goes to less than half of her classes anyway, least of all _languages._ ”

Thor, who actually was in the class (and surprisingly good at it, too) was waiting outside for them, leaning against the noticeboard with his girlfriend, Jane, on his arm.

“Good morning, friends! How was your weekend?”

Steve grinned. “Good, thanks.” Same old, same old. “And yourself?”

Thor nodded. “Most excellent. I spent it with fair Jane, here.”

Clint tried to disguise a laugh as a cough as Jane blushed at Thor’s side. “Hi.”

Steve nodded at her. “Hey.” Clint greeted her, too. She was the reason Steve sat alone in Spanish, as Thor was _far_ too preoccupied with his fair lady Jane to give his attention to anyone else. They always included Steve in group work, of course, but even then, he felt like the awkward third wheel, and resorted to doodling in the back of his book.

Spanish had never been his best subject, anyway.

Clint was asking Jane if she’d seen Natasha at all when the teacher appeared, unlocked the room and ushered them all in. The students filed in as Jane apologised to Clint in that no, she hadn’t seen her – although, why she would have, Steve didn’t know. From what he knew, Natasha didn’t frequent the science block that much, where he knew Jane spent much of her time.

Characteristically, Thor stepped forward to hold the door open for Jane, leaving the noticeboard behind him visible. And that’s when Steve saw it.

_Football tryouts_  
Wednesday, after school, on the sports field.   
Please see Coach Coulson for more details. 

Clint was poking his arm. “Steve, the class has gone in… what’s up with you? You could catch flies with that mouth.”

Steve clamped his jaw shut. “Football tryouts!” He grinned, still looking at the notice, so that he missed the look of absolute disdain on Clint’s face.

The other boy hummed. “Yeah, well, good luck with that. But now – Spanish. I’d say leave it, but the Senor Boring has already seen you, so you better get that ass in there. Get to it, Rogers!”

He physically shoved Steve into the class, but Steve didn’t care.

Because now he knewthat soon he’d be back on the field. 

* * *

Wednesday came around far too slowly for Steve’s liking.

He’d been buzzing with barely-controlled excitement since he’d found out about the trials on the Monday, going for runs in the evening just to make sure he was still in shape and trying his best not to make it all he talked about.

Which turned out to be easier than he’d thought – every time he brought the subject up to Clint he’d just shift about awkwardly and change the subject. So, Steve figured he wasn’t a football kind of guy. Well, he knew that – archery was clearly Clint’s bag. Which was fine.

Steve’s bag, however, was undeniably football.

Back in Virginia he’d been the captain of his team (traditionally nicknamed the _Howling Commandos_ ) and together they’d been _unstoppable._ Top of their league, beating teams from across America and all with the greatest bunch of guys Steve had ever known. The sense of camaraderie between them was something Steve had grown to love, and something he sorely missed – he couldn’t wait to get that going again.

He turned up at the field in a Commando’s kit and football boots, bubbling with enthusiasm with a grin the size of his whole face. The field was a little worn, sure – didn’t look like it’d been redone in a while, and the bleachers needed painting, that was for sure, but that didn’t change the fact that Steve was back on a _football field,_ even if only one of the posts was still standing and the lines were barely visible anymore.

Steve didn’t let that deter him. They’d fix it up for the team’s first game, there was no doubt about that.

Steve stood there for a good ten minutes, alone, before his smile started to fade.

_Where was everybody?_

His face contorted into a frown. Had he got the wrong place? No… the notice had definitely said sports field. Was there another sports field? Steve looked around, hoping for some kind of inspiration.

There was nobody – nothing – there.

He sat on the grass, cross legged, and waited, no longer smiling. The wind was picking up now, too, blowing Steve’s fringe across his face. He reached into his bag and pulled on a jacket, hugging himself in the cold.

Another five minutes later, Steve’s picking of the grass was interrupted by a voice. Steve jumped at the sound.

“Are you here for the football? I didn’t think anyone’d show.”

Steve looked up in the now fading sunlight at a man not dressed at all like a coach, but in suit pants and a shirt and tie, his jacket slung over his arm. The man was looking down at him with an expression on his face of pure disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite believe Steve was there at all. Quickly, Steve scrambled to his feet and held out his hand.

“Yes, sir. I’m Rogers, sir. Steve Rogers. I… I thought the try outs were tonight?”

Standing up, Steve had to look down to the man. His expression was still disbelieving and he didn’t take Steve’s hand, but his eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

“Yes, yes, they are tonight… unfortunately the attendance rates aren’t usually this high… Rogers, eh?” The man looked him up and down. His eyes snapped up to Steve’s again. “Is that a Commandos kit?”

Steve couldn’t help but smile, shoving his hand into his jacket pocket. “Yes, sir, it is. The team gave it to me when I left.”

The man swallowed hard. “Well, I’ll be. What’re you doing here then, Rogers? Last I heard you were top of the league.”

Steve shrugged, blushing despite himself. “I moved.”

“Sure did.” The man spoke slowly, nodding just as slowly, still looking at Steve as if trying to decide whether he was real. “And now you’re on _my pitch_.” He stressed the words, and for the first time, his expression changed. He smiled. “Phil Coulson.” he held his hand out and Steve shook it. “Trust me, I’d never have dreamed of a _Commando_ trying out for my team. You guys are legendary in the leagues. Us, well, we’re nothing, clearly. Jesus. And you – you were captain, weren’t you?”

He still hadn’t let go of Steve’s hand. Steve shifted uncomfortably. “Yes sir, I was.”

Coulson’s grin widened. “Jesus. And now here you are, trying out for _my team._ Ha!” He let Steve’s hand go and ran it over short, thinning brown hair. Steve laughed nervously.

“So, sir, what do you need me to do?” Coulson looked at him, smile gone, disbelief back. “For the try outs.” Steve clarified. “I… I assumed you were the coach?”

“Oh, of course!” Coulson started, eyes wide. “Please, Rogers, there’s no need. Clearly your talent is unquestionable – and, let’s be honest here, even if it wasn’t, there are no other candidates.”

Steve’s brows pulled together. “Wait, so – I really am the only one? Do the team not have to try out again?”

Coulson paused before answering. “There is no team, Mr Rogers. As of now, you’re the only one on it. Yes, I’m the coach – but can’t you see, it’s not my full time job? I’m Principal Fury’s deputy, hence the suit. I don’t coach full time because I can’t coach full time.”

“No team?” Steve asked incredulously. “Then why are there try outs? Why a coach at all? Or a pitch? What kind of school doesn’t have a football team?”

Coulson chuckled. “There _was_ a team. It kind of… fizzled out. I’ll let someone else fill you in on that, son, but suffice to say we don’t exactly get the cream of sporting talent here. All our money goes to the science block – the grants we get are from Stark Industries, after all, and they wouldn’t exactly be pleased if we spent all their money on sport, would they?”

Anger sparked in Steve – _Stark_ Industries? That had to be Tony’s father’s company. Funding whatever his son liked best, which, apparently, was science.

“The field is mainly for the cheerleaders, now.” Coulson continued. “And as for me, I try every year to get the team back on its feet. Usually, nobody shows.” He grinned. “But now, _now_ we’ve got you. And if a Commando can’t rekindle this school’s footballing spirit, I don’t know who can.”

Coulson shrugged his jacket on and, smiling, began to turn away. Steve stopped him.

“Wait! So, what… did I make the team? Is there a team at all?”

Coulson turned back to face him, still walking. “ _Make_ it? You’re going to _create_ it!” He laughed. “You can get a team together, I know you can, and then together, we’ll train them. I’ve got to be off, now, but I wish you the best of luck, Captain!”

Steve called back, having to shout across the field now. “Captain?”

“Of course!” Coulson replied. “Every team needs a captain!”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Steve standing alone and bewildered in the wind. 

* * *

“So, what – and then he just _made_ you captain?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. And now, well, now I don’t know what to do.”

Clint paused, stopping his pencil and interrupting his sketch of the fruit bowl in the middle of the table to look at Steve. He burst out laughing.

“What?” Steve frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, oh fuck,” he managed to choke out between laughs, “I don’t think … you understand.” He took a deep breath and managed to actually look at Steve, still smiling. “You’ve got your work cut out there, _captain.”_ With that last word, he degenerated into more laughter.

“Clint! Stop it! Why, what’s going on?”

Apparently he wasn’t heard. People from around the class were starting to stare, now – especially when Clint shrieked “Captain!” as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard between laughs.

Steve silently apologised to the teacher before turning back to Clint. “Calm down, Clint.”  
Clint wiped tears from his eyes, starting to stop laughing. Steve whispered in the new quiet of the classroom. “What, is this something to do with the fact that nobody showed up at the try outs?”

Clint raised his eyebrows at Steve, before apparently coming to a conclusion in his head and nodding to himself. “Listen, Steve.” He smirked. “Sorry, _Captain_ Steve.” He started to laugh a little but quickly stopped himself. “No, no seriously. Let me level with you on the football front. Here’s the thing about Shield High’s football team, right?

“They’re shit.”

Steve’s face screwed up. “Is that it?”

Clint’s eyes widened. “No no no no no, _Steve._ You don’t understand. They were _shit_. I mean, they were the shittest team ever to grace American league tables. They were seriously, seriously, _seriously_ shit, dude. They used to lose games a million to nil to girl guides and then get beaten up in parking lots. The name ‘Shield High Football’ evokes laughter in every school in the tristate area. That’s why the team dissolved, Steve. They haven’t won a game since… well, since Howard Stark himself went here, and we all know how long ago that was.”

“Just because they never won a game…” Steve stopped, Clint’s words only just making sense. “Wait, Tony Stark’s father went _here_?”

Clint snorted. “Sure. Why else would he pick this shithole to send his son? Because he had such a rip roaring old time in the good ol’ days, that’s why. Wants young Anthony to grow up just like him. God help us all.”

Steve shook his head, really trying to stop letting Tony Stark’s life story take over his day-to-day life. He’d seen that boy only a handful of times over the past fortnight (he doubted Tony was even in school much of the time) but every time he had, the meeting had been accompanied with a “Hey, new kid, seen much of Romanov lately?” or “Hey, I saw you driving to school this morning, you call that piece of trash a car? What happened to your horse?” or some other quip that Stark probably thought was witty, followed by a snicker from him and the dark boy – ‘Rhodes’ or ‘Rhodey’, as Steve had heard him called – and an eye roll from Pepper. And there had not yet been a day where Tony Stark’s family or life or car or stupid _sunglasses_ hadn’t been mentioned to him.

Pity over the boy’s family situation or no, he was really starting to irritate Steve.

He decided to change the subject.

“But, still, a few losses doesn’t mean a team should dissolve, does it?”

Clint shook his head. “You’re underestimating how catastrophically shitty this team were, Steve. People were getting embarrassed even being associated with them. It took the basketball team a good year to stop being jeered at just for practicing sport in the same school as them.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. And you’re gonna have a hard job breaking that taboo, Captain. Fury even hired a new coach – that Coulson guy – to try and get the team going again. But he couldn’t do it, so now he’s basically Fury’s right hand man. How a coach can just magically turn into a Deputy Head overnight is beyond me – but trust me, man, you don’t want to get in one of _his_ detentions. Most of the freshers barely leave alive.”

Steve sighed. What was he meant to do? Football had been his life, his best way of letting go, his main source of friendship back home. And here, it was… what? Laughed at? Embarrassing?

He rolled his pencil between his fingers, thinking. That didn’t mean he was going to give up. No, football had done so much for him, and he’d be damned if he at least didn’t _try_ to get a team together.

Which reminded him…

“So, I suppose I’d better get a team together sooner rather than later, hadn’t I? I mean, they’re obviously going to need a lot of training…”

Clint looked across at him under furrowed eyebrows. “I don’t like that tone, Rogers.”

Steve shrugged, aiming for innocence. “I just-“

At that point he was interrupted, as the art teacher, Miss Jones, stood up at the front.

“Okay, class, the lesson’s nearly over – but before you go, I’d like to tell you about this year’s big project.”

She made her way around the tables, dropping sheets of paper on each one as she went.

“As you know, in Fine Art you’re required to take up a theme to work on throughout the year, working towards a final piece in the final exam at the end of the year, after which your work will be shown in an exhibition that the other students and your families can visit. I’m giving out a list of prompt words, given to us by the exam board – you’ll have to pick one as your theme and mould your work for the rest of the year around it to build up a portfolio and work for the exhibition. Any questions?”

She finally reached Steve’s table, passing him a sheet. When he thanked her, she smiled. Clint pulled tongues at him, taking a sheet for himself. He groaned melodramatically as the chatter picked up around the class again.

“Are you kidding? How vague can these words get? Mechanical and Organic? Expectation and reality? Shadow? Heroes? How in the name am I meant to get a decent grade in this class now?”

Steve wasn’t bothered with the project, not yet. He was sure something would come to him eventually. No, he had an entirely different project in mind.

“So, as I was saying…”

Clint eyed him suspiciously. Steve smiled.

“The basis of a good team is a key member, you know, someone who they know can secure the wins… someone with good aim, I find, is always helpful-“

“Fuck off, Rogers.”

“But-“

Clint leaned back on his chair, feet on the desk. “I wouldn’t join that shit if you paid me. Like I said, I wish you the best of luck, but you’re on your own.”

Steve let his head fall on the desk as the bell rung out in the corridor.

Where _exactly_ was he meant to find this team? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> genuine questions from my art exam; i doubt american exams work in the same way, but i'm hoping they're similar hahaha


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is seriously going to be so much longer than I thought - sorry, haha! I've done a plan and everything now though, PROGRESS! How proud of me are you, seriously, look at me being organized.   
> Okay, I'll shut up now. Thank you for reading, kudos-ing, and commenting - any and all feedback is appreciated!   
> Much love <3

Steve was honestly surprised at how gentle Thor’s personality was, how smiley and caring and kind, given his physique. He looked like the kind of guy who could down a whole barrel of beer in one and drag cars along with his teeth, who’d be covered in tattoos and ride a Harley Davidson - when in fact he was the kind of guy who held doors open for his girlfriend, tried to catch butterflies at lunch and hugged everyone far too tightly out of pure, innocent affection.

Seeing him benchpress 300lb like the weights were made of cotton candy, Steve couldn’t quite put those images together in his mind.

He was sat on the window ledge, as had become his habit, following an hour’s run on the treadmill. The heat from his body was starting to steam up the window he was leaning against, but Steve was too out of breath to care. Clint was at the archery field, practising – Steve didn’t fancy the idea of just sitting and watching all lunch, so he’d headed to the gym with Thor. Plus, he didn’t think he could take any more of the laughing about the team. He needed to solve this problem, and Clint’s attitude was only making things worse.

“Lunch is nearly over, Thor. We should probably head back soon.”

Seemingly without effort, Thor put the weights down and slid out from under them to sit up. “Very well.” He looked up at Steve, squinting at the afternoon light coming from the window behind him. “Might I ask what is troubling you, Steve? You haven’t been yourself all hour.”

“I’m okay.” Steve said, sliding off the ledge and throwing his towel over his shoulder and entirely meaning to leave it at that. But Thor just kept… _looking_ at him, with big, trusting, blue eyes like a puppy, a small crease of concern between his eyebrows.

“It’s just,” he began, glancing at Thor to see if he could drop it. No, he was definitely going to have to continue. “It’s just this team, that’s all, Thor. I don’t know where to start, you know? If things are as bad as Clint says-“

Thor cut him off with a bark of a laugh. “Do not listen to Clint. I enjoy his company, but the man can be melodramatic, I have noticed. Your team, what is the sport?”

“Football.” Steve mumbled, not entirely convinced by what Thor was saying. Thor made a ‘pfft’ noise.

“A most popular endeavour in this country, I understand. You will find your comrades in no time, friend, all you need is to ‘get the ball rolling’,” he put air quotes around the phrase, “as they say.”

Thor stood, a smile on his face which did little to comfort Steve, and they began to head for the locker room, when suddenly he stopped dead.

“…Thor? Buddy, you okay?”

Thor’s grin spread across his face, his eyes lighting up. “Steve, don’t you see?”

Steve looked behind him, then back to Thor, who was now directly in front of him. He tried not to jump. “See what?”

Up close, Thor’s grin was a little terrifying. “Steve! _I_ will join your team!”

Steve’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “…You? Thor, I didn’t think you played-“

Thor laughed, straight into Steve’s face. “I do not! But, surely, I can learn? You can teach me!”

Steve laughed nervously, and Thor laughed too, out of pure joy and excitement.

“Thor, do you… do you know the rules?”

Thor laughed again. “No!”

Again, a nervous, false laugh escaped. Steve didn’t have the heart to tell him no, he needed people who actually knew the first thing about the rules of football… plus, it didn’t really look like he could afford to be picky. Thor was a well-built guy, after all – surely he could be of some use, if a little… unconventional?

He locked his jaw and steeled himself for what he knew was going to come next, clapping Thor on the shoulder. “Well then, welcome to the team, man.”

“Ha!”

And there it was, the hug that nearly knocked most people flying, and that Steve only managed to withstand by rooting his feet into the floor.

Well, at least he knew the guy could tackle.

* * *

It was Math last lesson, and Steve had come to dread that.

He took his seat at the back of the class as soon as he got there, making his way through the crowd of students strolling in, casually chatting. Bruce was already there, books laid out in front of him, fiddling with the pencil in his fingers.

“Hi.” Steve offered a small smile as he passed the boy, but he just nodded in return. Steve tried not to roll his eyes as he sat, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he’d succeeded.

The teacher soon arrived, but, as per usual, took another five minutes to quieten the class down.

Steve was well into his trigonometry when it happened.

“Hey there, peasants! Sorry I’m late, buddy, but hey, you can’t rush perfection now, can you?”

With a sharp grin, a shout and a flourish, Tony Stark had swept into the room, chewing loudly on something. Steve’s mouth nearly hit the desk, his eyebrows forming an unattractive ridge over his eyebrows.

The teacher’s reaction wasn’t much different. “Mr – Mr Stark?” He stammered, and then coughed. “May I, erm… May I ask what you’re doing here?”

Tony was already in the aisle at the middle of the desks, spinning round and continuing to still somehow swagger backwards. “Baker, baby, didn’t you know? You get the pleasure of my presence in your classes this year!” With a flash of his grin again, he spun back around, adding a quiet “Occasionally” and a wink to the nearest stunned classmate, who happened to be a blonde girl who promptly erupted into hysterical giggles and nearly fell off her chair.

Tony chuckled as he reached the back of the class, a resigned “Oh” coming from Mr Baker at the front. Stark scanned the empty seats and his eyes seemed to rest on Steve – although, of course, he couldn’t tell for sure behind the sunglasses. Steve prayed that he’d got it wrong, that no, Stark wasn’t going to sit next to him and tease him relentlessly, feeding his new found fascination with the new kid who just didn’t seem to care all that much, as Tony walked across to his side of the room, trying to focus on the flustered teacher at the front of the class, the trigonometry in front of him and attempting to resolutely ignore the swivelling of heads to look at the boy behind him.

Seriously, why was everyone so _obsessed_ with this guy?

Turned out, Steve was being paranoid for no reason. Tony hadn’t been heading for the seat next to him at all. Just as Mr Baker set the lesson’s work, he all but collapsed into a seat.

Next to Bruce.

Once again, Steve tried to stop the incredulity on his face, but he didn’t seem to be having much success in controlling his expressions today.

Bruce didn’t look amused, either, eyeing Tony sideways through his wire-rimmed glasses. He hadn’t said anything, though – not that that surprised Steve. He stayed hunched over his textbook, not even flinching when Tony kicked back his chair and propped his feet up on the desk.

A general chatter had grown in the rest of the classroom as everyone else began the work. Tony, meanwhile, was blowing bubbles with the candy pink bubblegum he was chewing like a cow.

“Jeeeeeeeeeez,” he sighed, popping the latest one, “are all the classes like this? I’m kinda glad I never bothered to show.”

Steve looked over in what he hoped was a surreptitious way, but Tony wasn’t looking back. He wasn’t talking to Steve at all. He was eyeing Bruce carefully, and being completely ignored.

Steve told himself it wasn’t envy that panged in his chest.

“Hey.” Tony said, a frown on his face, tilting his chair so it was upright again. “Hey.” He poked Bruce on the shoulder. “Hey, Banner.” He did it again.

He repeated this at least three times before Bruce forcefully put down his pen and turned to face Tony.

“Is there a problem, Mr Stark?”

Steve hid his gasp of surprise – the kid had actually made him _gasp_ like a woman in a black and white film – behind an impromptu coughing fit. A couple of kids on the row in front turned to see what was going on, but Bruce and Tony didn’t even look over. He stopped writing, listening to their conversation carefully.

Tony laughed. “Knew you weren’t mute.”

With a sigh, Bruce turned back to his paper, curling his arm around it protectively. “If you don’t mind, I just want to get on with my math.”

Steve watched from the corner of his eye as Tony watched Bruce, still chewing, his chin in his hands. “Oh, okay. That’s fine.” He still hadn’t got a book out, or a pen, or any paper. Come to think of it, the kid didn’t even have a bag. He shuffled closer to Bruce. Bruce didn’t flinch. Tony shuffled closer still. Still, no reaction. Closer. Not so much as a blink from the other boy.

When Tony blew a bubble that almost touched Bruce’s ear and popped it loud enough for the whole class to turn around and see what was going on, Bruce slammed his pen down again and turned back to Tony, clear anger behind his eyes.

The tension in the rest of the class was palpable, but Steve didn’t really understand it. The chatter was still going, but it was stilted, nervous – and every now and then, someone would turn to look at Bruce and Tony.

Tony seemed not to have picked up on this, and took his opportunity as Bruce’s arms weren’t around his textbook to snatch it from the desk and hold it in front of him.

Bruce didn’t make a grab for it, just breathed deeply and formed a fist, before releasing it.

Steve was starting to worry.

“Ha!” Tony’s laugh was like a bark. “Is this joker kidding? Dude, I could have done these questions with a crayon in kindergarten. This class is _so_ not worth my time.”

“Can I have my book back, please?”

Bruce’s voice was low, threatening, barely controlled. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw locked. Steve watched with concern. What was Stark playing at? Clearly, this kid didn’t want him touching his stuff. He didn’t talk to people easily, Steve got that, why couldn’t Tony?

Tony laughed again, glancing at Bruce. “Ooh, that was a bit threatening, wasn’t it? You don’t scare _me,_ Banner, no matter where you’ve been. Are you trying to tell me that you find this shit _mentally stimulating_?”

His smile didn’t falter. Bruce watched him carefully, his eyes scanning Tony under deeply furrowed brows, seemingly analysing him, his head tilted slightly, his mouth a little open like the words had escaped him. Tony popped another bubble.

“No.” Bruce said at last, surprising even himself, it seemed. The tension was gone from his shoulders and jaw, but he still watched Tony warily, his eyes alert. Tony’s grin grew at his response – Steve was staring at his own paper, starting to feel very left out of the conversation. Neither boy had even acknowledged his presence.

“Knew it. Why are you even here, Banner?”

“I…” Bruce hesitated, running his fingers along the dents in the edge of the desk. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Tony considered this. “Good a reason as any.” He leaned back again, swinging his feet off the desk and heaving himself upright. “I, on the other hand, have many important and interesting places to be, which could better serve my interests than here. You can come if you want – turns out you’re not the scary ass monster everyone made you out to be last year.”

Steve was listening intently now. Monster? Bruce? What had gone on that he didn’t know about?

If that wasn’t enough to shock him, what happened next could have knocked him dead. Bruce _laughed_. A low, husky sound, private and quiet, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Thanks.” He added, quietly. “I think.”

Tony walked around him to the aisle, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re most welcome. I’m sure you can find me if you get bored. But for now, I’m off.”

“There’s like, thirty minutes of class left-“

“Pfffft.” Tony dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Class schmlass. Who cares? I’ll come back when you’re on to something at least marginally worth my time. Laters, Banner. Laters, Lancelot.”

With a start that made him jump, Steve realised Tony was talking to him. He looked up. “Excuse me?”

Tony smiled down at him. “Sorry to startle you, princess, I was just saying goodbye.” Steve felt his cheeks heat of their own accord. Tony snorted. “Cutie. Why are you sitting at opposite ends of the desk, anyway?” He looked at Bruce, who was looking at his textbook. Tony carried on. “If you ever need a guy to watch out for you, apparently Blondie over there’s your guy, Banner. Nearly had my arm off, he did. Plus, his backpack’s adorable, you could do a lot worse.”

Bruce was definitely blushing now. Tony was grinning again, winking at Steve.

Steve was just confused. “I… excuse me, Mr Stark?”

“Ha! You kill me, Rogers. That’s your name, right?”

“I…” Steve tried to get his brain in order. How did Stark know his name? _Why_ did Stark know his name? Why was he trying to make a conversation that didn’t involve Tony shouting random unfunny mildly insulting quips about Steve’s car or friends - or lack of? “Yeah.” He paused, registering what he’d said. After a moment, as Tony was blowing another bubble, Steve realised something. “What’s wrong with my backpack?”

The bubble popped in Tony’s face as he started to laugh, and he had to lick it off his lips. “Nothing!” He said, having cleaned his face of pink bubblegum. “I said it was adorable, didn’t I? Straight out of a boy scout camping holiday. Is that where it’s from?”

Bruce laughed quietly, Steve frowned, his cheeks heating again, finding nothing witty to say back. “I was never a boy scout.”

Tony looked genuinely surprised. “Seriously? Wow, I thought that might have been where you learned your chivalric code, you know, picking up books for teachers and holding open doors for people when they’re _literally_ at the other end of the corridor, and all.”

“What?” Steve’s frown deepened. That was personal – those were things he actually did, but that didn’t make him a bad person. Quite the opposite, even. So why was Tony turning this into a bad thing, into something he could tease Steve about? And, more to the point, how did he know? “Where are you getting this from?”

Tony tapped the side of his nose. “I have eyes _everywhere,_ new kid. They’re not messing when they say I own the place – hey, it’s my name on the science block, isn’t it?”

Steve felt a pang of disgust in his stomach. He was actually showing off about his money – the money that went to the science blocks, Coulson had said, the money that starved the sports teams of their resources. He scowled. “Is it not your father’s name on the science block, Stark?”

Bruce’s eyes widened as he looked at his math sheet. Tony lifted his chin, quite literally looking down his nose at Steve, eyes narrowed, light hearted, cocky façade gone and replaced with a much darker expression. Steve felt a little panicked at how quickly Tony had turned, the feeling of crossing some kind of line creeping up his spine, but he kept his own chin high, not about to be beaten.

“Heh.” Tony’s laugh was darker this time, not accompanied by a bright pink bubble. “Nicely done, new kid. How’d you figure that one out?”

Steve smiled in mock innocence. “I have eyes everywhere, Stark.”

A thin smile spread across Tony’s lips. “Ooh, the boy scout can sass. That’s not something I was expecting.” He nodded to Bruce. “Look after Banner while I’m gone, kay?”

He turned his back to Steve, and his entire persona changed, like an actor stepping back into the spotlight.

With a wicked grin and a “Until next time, brethren!” Tony swaggered from the room, saluting at a startled but silent Mr Baker at the front as he closed the door behind him.

When the chatter started up again, Steve got back to his trigonometry, annoyance still bubbling in his stomach. What was that guy’s problem, anyway?

“So… Steve, is it?”

The voice was quiet, timid, barely audible in amongst the rest of the talking, but now familiar. Steve’s head snapped up to look at Bruce, mouth slightly open. Bruce looked taken aback.

“Erm-“

“No!” Steve said, entirely inappropriately, entirely not what he told his brain he wanted to say. “I mean… yes.” Bruce’s eyebrows were a little raised now – Steve was talking like an idiot. “Yes, I’m Steve.”

Bruce’s smile was small, but it was there. Steve couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“So,” he continued, “you nearly took Tony Stark’s arm off?”

Steve couldn’t help it. He laughed. Bruce smiled too.

If the rest of the day had been crappy, and even he was still a little aggravated thanks to Tony’s presence, Steve definitely counted this conversation as a victory.

And if he got to make Stark sound like an ass whilst telling the story, all the better.

* * *

“Hey, Captain!”

Steve resisted the urge to bang his head on his locker. It had been a long day, and he seriously just wanted to get home, and get a bath.

He definitely wasn’t in the mood for Clint.

He turned around when Clint reached him, alerted by a slap on his arm. “Sup, how’s the team coming along?” Clint’s grin was wide, no doubt mocking him, but Steve chose to ignore it.

“I’ve got my first player, _actually._ ” He asserted with a tight-lipped smile, and Clint raised his eyebrows, letting out a whistle.

“Oh really? Who?”

Steve chewed the inside of his lip, now wishing he hadn’t sounded so proud of himself. “…Thor.” He said, finally.

Clint’s reaction was just as Steve had expected – he burst out laughing.

Steve began to walk away.

“Hey, hey no! Hey, Cap, wait up, I was only joking –“

He stopped and turned so abruptly that Clint nearly ran into his chest.  “My name’s Steve, Clint.”  
  
Clint grinned up at him. “What, don’t you like your new title, _Captain_?”

“Yes, actually.” Steve narrowed his eyes. “I do. But not when it’s coming from you. Either join the team or don’t, Clint, I don’t care – but please, quit it, because I’m not going to stop trying to build it just because you think it’s stupid.”

There was silence between them for a moment, then, as Clint looked at Steve closely, analysing his face. “’Kay.” He eventually said. “I was only joking around.”

Steve sighed heavily, running his hand through his hair and looking at the floor. “Sorry.” He mumbled. “I’ve just… had a bad afternoon. And this team’s proving to be more difficult than I thought.” He looked at Clint again. “Sorry.”

With his lip pouted out like a small child, Clint tilted his head to one side. “Aw, buddy. Hey, you’ve got a car, haven’t you?”

Steve frowned. “That has literally nothing to do with anything I just said.”

“Good! You can tell me all about your bad day when you give me a lift home then – I hate the bus anyways.”

He strode off in front of Steve, wide smile on his face.

With a groan, Steve had no choice but to follow.

He really wanted to just go to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm getting so close to the actual writing of actual american football it's scaring me quite a bit.  
> sorry to all the americans out there.  
> happy new year guys :)

“… and it’s just the way he keeps calling me a _boy scout,_ you know? I mean, he doesn’t know me – more to the point, I don’t know _him_ \- seriously, why does he feel the need to yell stuff at me? Oh, and don’t even-”

“Here’s just fine, thanks.”

Steve almost slammed on the brakes, too lost in his own rant to even remember that Clint was there, knees tucked under his chin in the seat next to him. It took him a minute to register what the other boy had said and looked around – they were at the top of a road of shops, battered and decaying, some abandoned, some still open, somehow. Steve frowned.

“Oh no it’s fine, Clint, I’ll take you all the way home – sorry, I’ve been ranting on, haven’t I? How was your day?”

“Seriously, Steve, here’s fine.”

“No honestly, I don’t mind-“

“Stop the car, Steve.”

This time, Steve did slam on the brakes. Clint’s voice was low and threatening, just like when they’d first met, before they’d spoke – Steve looked slowly across at Clint, ignoring the wails of car horns as the other people on the road had to swerve around them.

“Okay?” He didn’t mean it to sound like a question, didn’t mean to sound uncertain. This was _Clint,_ after all, and why did he have to be afraid of Clint?

Clint was already opening the door, art book tucked under his arm, stepping out into the wind. He looked back at Steve with a tight smile, pulling the zip up on his leather jacket and slamming the door shut again with a bang, leaving a bewildered Steve in the driver’s seat.

He hadn’t meant to annoy him – the boy had actually offered to listen to him rant, after all. Maybe he’d just gotten a bit carried away…

Pulling his eyes away from where Clint was walking away, Steve started the truck up again and headed home. He could deal with this tomorrow.

* * *

_Steve,_

_I don’t know how you’re getting on with the ‘team building’, but if we’re going to make it into this season’s league, we’re going to have to start training soon. Shall we regroup tomorrow, 4.00? Bring whatever players you’ve got.  
Coulson._

Steve scowled at the note in his locker. ‘Players’? That was a bit optimistic. Steve had _player,_ singular, if you could even count someone who didn’t know the first rule of football as a player. Still, he’d have to let Thor know – he’d planned to use his lunch to find Clint, make sure he was okay, but he was sure he’d see him at some point. It was entirely likely he wasn't in, anyway - he hadn't seen him all morning after their weird parting last night.

By the time Steve reached the gym, he'd worked himself up into a silent panic again over upsetting Clint, still clueless as to what he'd done exactly, as to why Clint left in such a hurry and why he wouldn't just let Steve take him all the way home. He guessed that he'd be with Thor anyway, and resolved to apologise for whatever it was rather than face a confrontation, but he wasn't anywhere to be seen in the gym, and, more surprisingly, neither was Thor.

Steve was immediately unimpressed with how little he knew about the other boy, as he had no further ideas as to where he might be. Thor was a bit of an enigma at the best of times, with his weird accent and weird hair - Clint had explained how nobody actually knew where Thor had even come from, just that he'd turned up at school one day with his (quote) "wacky-ass" brother (who Steve had yet to experience) and sort of made himself a place, claiming himself one of the most sought after girls in school in about a month.

With nowhere else to look, Steve headed to the science block to find Jane, figuring she’d probably have a better idea than he would.

The plaque in the entrance proclaiming that the block was funded by ‘Stark Industries’ made Steve frown, but he tried not let it get to him, rubbing the side of his head, still sore from that morning.

It seemed that the stupid teasing about his backpack, clothes, car, _sense of decency_ and apparent lack of friends had proven just too little for Tony. That morning, when Steve had been on his way to English class first lesson, it had reached its peak so far. Up until then, the other boy, Rhodes, had just laughed inanely at whatever Tony shouted, sometimes joined in with something equally as ridiculous, but now, just over a month into school, he’d apparently decided that he wanted to play, too, casually tripping Steve up as he walked past him, earning raucous laughter from the entire corridor for him, and a nasty crack on the head as it hit the water fountain for Steve, as well as a fierce red blush on his cheeks from the sheer embarrassment. Steve was sure he could hear Tony’s laugh the loudest, harsh and wicked, positive that it had probably all been somehow his idea.

He got up as quickly as he could and carried on walking, trying to let this go over his head, to remember that he was the better man - but he knew in the back of his mind that there was only a limited amount of time he’d put up with it. He’d been in trouble before for letting his temper get the better of him, and he wasn’t about to let it happen again easily, but _damn_ did Tony Stark test his patience.

Luckily, it only took checking in a few rooms before Steve found Jane – he saw her through the window in the door of the darkened lab on the second floor, hunched over papers which were spread out across the desk, another girl sat basically on the papers she was trying to look at and eating an apple. Steve knocked gently, and the girl he didn’t know looked at him sharply, eyes narrowed behind black-rimmed, square glasses, before swinging her legs off the desk and sliding down, pulling much of Jane’s work off the desk with her.

“Darcy!”

The other girl – Darcy, apparently – paid no heed to Jane’s exasperation and headed to the door, still eyeing Steve suspiciously. She opened the door just enough to fit her face in the gap.

“Yes? Can we help you?”

“Darcy, stop being an ass and let whoever it is in.”

Steve didn’t quite know how to react to that. “Um, I’m sorry, is Jane there?

The girl smiled a tight smile. “Miss Foster is on a strict schedule. Do you have an appointment? I don’t remember any tall and handsome specimens like you on the list.” A grin crept up one side of her face.

Steve stumbled over his words. “Erm… I… sorry, I didn’t know-“

Darcy scanned him, up and down, before looking back up at him under thick, dark eyelashes. “Well, I’m sure I can make an exception… for a price, of course-“

“Darcy! Who do you think you are? Leave the boy alone.” Jane swivelled around and, seeing Steve on the other side of the door, blushing crimson, sighed heavily. “Jesus, Darce, let him in, and turn the light on, will you? Sorry, Steve, I’ll be with you in a minute, _somebody_ just knocked all my notes off the desk and now they’re all _out of order-_ “ She bent down to pick up said notes, earning a loud scoff from Darcy.

“Oh _please.”_ She said, flipping the light on and walking back to Jane. “They weren’t in any kind of order to begin with. You think you’re a lot more organized than you are, you know.”

Jane stood up and thrust the papers at Darcy, blowing her fringe out of her eyes with a sharp puff and tucking her pen behind her ear. “Well then, you won’t mind doing it for me, will you?”

Darcy smiled a sweet smile, taking the papers from Jane, but as soon as she turned around, she pulled tongues at her back.

Jane finally turned to Steve. “Sorry about that.” She smiled. “You alright, Steve?”

Steve brought himself back to reality, ignoring Darcy’s disgruntled mumbling at the other side of the room. “Oh, erm, yes thanks – sorry, am I interrupting?”

“No-“ Jane began with a smile.

“Yes.” Darcy interrupted, but never looked up. “But that’s alright. Where’ve you been hiding this one then, Jane? I swear, you’re like a hot blonde dude _magnet,_ no idea where you get it from – I’m assuming this one’s for me, seeing as you already have one of your own.”

Jane rolled her eyes, Steve felt the blush rise in his cheeks again despite his attempts to quell it. “I – er, excuse me, ma’am?”

He gave himself a mental slap as soon as he’d said it. Darcy dropped the entire pile of paper she’d been collecting back to the floor and wheeled around to stare at Steve.

“Did you just call me _ma’am_?”

“I-“ He began, but Jane cut in.

“Yes, Darce, some people in the world have _manners,_ you know? Not that you’d really understand about those.” She turned back to Steve, earning another pulled-tongues at her back. “Don’t mind her, Steve, she’s just a bit depraved. I wouldn’t keep her around, except her detention agreement states she’s got to stay in her and at least do _some_ science work.”

“…Detention _agreement_?” Apparently Natasha and Clint weren’t the only ones negotiating punishments around here. Darcy just grinned.

“Got to get my extra credit somehow. If it means staying in a couple of lunchtimes with the teacher’s pet over there, I think I can handle it. Sure, it was a living hell at first, but she’s alright when you get used to her.”

Steve was expecting Jane to get offended at that, but she just smiled. “Shut up, Darce. Anyway, Steve, is there something you needed? Or was this just a social call?”

He laughed nervously. “No, no – I was looking for Thor, actually, have you seen him?”

“Is the hot-blonde-guys-who-speak-like-they’re-from-the-thirties-club meeting again _already_? Can I come?” Darcy asked at the other end of the room, but Jane ignored her. Steve went along with Jane’s decision.

“I haven’t, actually – I don’t actually think he’s in today, which is a little weird.” A small crease formed between her eyebrows. “I’ll drop by his house after school, make sure he’s okay. Do you want me to tell him anything?”

Steve considered this. “I don’t think it matters, actually. Just, erm – just let him know that Coulson’s said we should start practicing soon, so keep an eye out for any notices – I’ll let him know when they start, though.”

Jane’s smile had gone from bright and friendly to wise and knowing. “Ah, yeah. He mentioned the team, actually. He’s really excited.” She let out a short laugh. “Nice of you to let him join, Steve. I mean, he’s not exactly an expert – he came to a game with me and Darcy once -”

“This is not something we speak about Jane, we have discussed this. That restraining order broke my heart. Do you want me to cry?”

Jane smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Safe to say he didn’t really get it. So yeah, I can’t imagine he’s really the most valuable asset you’ve got.”

Steve’s laugh in return was low and rueful. “You’d be surprised. Thanks anyway, and let Thor know I was asking after him.”

Jane nodded. “Will do. You can stay here if you want, of course – it’s not going to be very interesting, though, and you _will_ have to put up with Darcy’s mindless objectification-“

“Hey!”

Steve laughed a little. “That’s alright. Thanks, Jane.”

“Laters, Steve.” She untucked her pen from her ear and headed back over to Darcy with a smile.

“Bye Steve!” Darcy shouted after him as he left the room. Steve waved at her through the window before heading down the stairs to the exit.

So, now he had 0 players for Coulson’s meeting, if Thor didn’t reappear tomorrow. Fantastic. Jane was right, Thor wasn’t the perfect player, but with a little training, he was going to be brilliant, Steve could feel it – well, he hoped he would be, anyway. Still, he was something to prove to Coulson he was actually sticking with this thing, someone to show that he had tried – and now he wasn’t even here.

He wondered what would make Thor stay off like that without even telling Jane, and for a moment, a cloud of worry crossed his mind. He was probably just sick, though. Thor wasn’t known for using his phone particularly effectively anyway – Clint had teased them both about it, Thor with a fancy phone he couldn’t use, and Steve with his own brick-like phone that just about called people and didn’t even have a colour screen.

It worked, though, and that was all that mattered, really.

“Hey, Rogers, is that you?”

Steve stopped dead, knowing that he should probably keep walking if he wanted to keep a hold of today’s mental health.

He took a breath and continued walking without saying a word.

“Hey, Rogers! Rogers, wait up!”

He heard the other boy start running to catch up with him, and cursed silently, under his breath. He felt a clap on his shoulder.

“Hey, no wait, seriously, I’ve got something I want to say.”

He stopped and turned to face the other boy, fist so tight around the strap of his backpack that his knuckles went white and his fingernails left little crescent moons in his palm. “Not in the mood, Stark. You’ve had your laugh for today, can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

Tony looked up at him, an expression on his face that Steve hadn’t been expecting to see. He wasn’t smiling, or mocking – no, he was looking up at Steve with an expression something akin to worry, or guilt.

Steve didn’t let it affect him, keeping his own face stoic. Tony looked away from him, scratching the back of his neck – it wasn’t just his expression that was different, Steve noticed. He wasn’t wearing those _infernal_ sunglasses, and the suit had been replaced with ordinary-looking jeans and a t-shirt with a logo on. His shoes didn’t click as he walked down the corridor, replaced with battered-looking converse. And every item of clothing was smeared with the same black stuff that was now across the back of Tony’s neck, having rubbed off his dirty fingers.

 “Listen, about this morning-“ he began, but faded off when he looked back up at Steve. Steve raised one eyebrow.  He opened his mouth to continue, but from somewhere behind him, there was a loud crash. Tony wheeled around, his eyes growing wide. “Oh, no. Oh _shit_ no.” He ran off in the direction of the noise.

Steve watched him run into one of the rooms, curiosity sparking within him.

 _No,_ he told himself firmly, _he’ll only get you worked up again. Walk away._

With a sigh, he turned back around, heading for the exit again.

He didn’t get as far as four steps before Tony’s voice was back. “Hey, Rogers! No, seriously, man, I need to tell you something, it’s important – minor crisis – _shit!_ – but, heh, nothing that I can’t solve. Seriously though, just like, wait _two seconds,_ that’s all this will take I swear – look, come here a sec, I’ll be with you before you can say – _holy crap no, don’t  light on fire!_ ”

He ran back into the room. Steve watched him, chewing his lip. Every thought in his head was yelling at him to go, to leave the jerk where he was, what did he have to say that Steve wanted to hear anyway?

He walked back towards the room Tony was in, his internal monologue screaming at him. 

Reaching the doorway, the sight only got weirder. Tony was in the middle of the room, slowly becoming surrounded in smoke, attacking a desk with a fire extinguisher, the white dust shooting out of it beginning to cover both the entire centre of the room and Tony himself, who was currently shouting “Hey, man, shut the door would you? Don’t let the smoke get out, the alarms will go off.”

How the alarms hadn’t already gone off, Steve didn’t know, but he shut the door anyway, and flicked on the light whilst he was there – why was everyone in this block so obsessed with darkness?

The smoke had stopped billowing now, and Tony had stopped firing the extinguished aimlessly at whatever used to be in the middle of the room. He now stood there, entirely surrounded in whatever the white stuff was that had been in the extinguisher and mostly covered in it, panting heavily, holding the extinguisher up like a lifeline.

Steve paused. “Erm…”

Entirely without warning, Tony burst out laughing. Steve took a step back towards the wall. Tony threw the extinguisher aside with a loud clang, probably denting a desk on the way, and began to push aside some of the dust, retrieving something undistinguishable and charred from underneath it, and encouraging more of the powder to puff up in his face, greying his dark hair. “Aw, hell.” He said, between laughs. “After all that, it didn’t even _work_.”

Steve watched, slightly bemused, and looked around the mess that used to be a science lab. “Erm-“

“Oh, jeez, Rogers!” He turned back to Steve, tossing whatever was in his hand aside. “You alright? I’ll open the windows now – couldn’t let the smoke into the corridors, of course, or the alarms would have gone off – and don’t I _know_ how pissy Fury gets when that happens. ‘Course, I’ve disabled them in here – disabled them on my floor as well, that’s usually safe, but if I disable the whole building-“ he wrenched open a window “he gets even more pissy – some health and safety crap, I don’t know – I mean, I’ve told him, Fury, baby, you can’t have it both ways, you can’t have no alarms and working alarms, a man’s got to _work_ here, but he wasn’t having any of it.” He pulled open the other window and turned back to Steve, the smoke clearing, a grin back on his face.  “Wasn’t that fun?”

 _No,_ Steve thought, _that was the exact opposite of ‘fun’. That was you nearly burning down the building._ All he managed to say, though, was “What?”

Tony’s grin didn’t falter. “Minor malfunction, nothing serious, have to try again tomorrow.”

He walked back over to Steve, who had steeled again – in the midst of the smoke, he’d forgotten why he was there at all, bowled over by this strange boy who really wasn’t the Tony Stark Steve had seen swaggering about the school – he was clearly a lunatic with a Bunsen Burner, covered in fire extinguisher dust with holes in his jeans. But now, the smoke had cleared, and rather than show his amusement, his bewilderment, and rather than ask the million questions that were circling around his head, he kept his expression bored and his voice steady.

“You had something you wanted to say?”

Tony stopped in front of him, letting his eyes drop to the floor. “Oh. Yeah.” He looked up, lips tight. “Listen, about this morning – I…” He paused, looked back to his feet. “I told Rhodey not to do it. Kid reckons he’s funny, when really, he should leave that kind of stuff to me. So, um, yeah…” He looked back up, scratching behind his ear. Steve raised an eyebrow, keeping his mask up, even though his heartbeat had sped up entirely of its own accord. Was that… an apology? Half a one, anyway. Steve looked down at the funny, dark haired boy, dusted in an indiscriminate white substance, who from the minute they’d met had been his tormentor in the corridors… and now he was apologising? Explaining how it hadn’t been his fault?

What did this guy want?

Tony’s expression collapsed into one of exasperation. “Jeez, man, you’re really fucking _tall,_ has anyone ever told you that?”

Steve couldn’t help but let his eyebrows fall, taken aback. That really wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “I – er, no, not really.”

Tony nodded slowly, apparently agreeing with his earlier statement. “Seriously. Built like a bull, as well – _and_ you’re like, what, a year younger than me?” He laughed without smiling. “You could snap me in half.”

“I-“ Steve didn’t know how to respond to that. His frown deepened. “Excuse me? That’s not really the kind of guy-“

“You are. I know. I guessed. Just saying.” Tony wheeled around and strode away.

That hadn’t been what Steve was going to say. The sentence in his head had ended with “I want to be”, but he could let Tony believe otherwise. He’d been in too many fights thanks to his short fuse – too many fights he couldn’t win, in the past. Before Bucky. Before the Military Academy. Now that he could win them… well, he just tried not to pick them. People had told him before he didn’t know his own strength.

“Don’t know why you’ve put up with me this long, to be honest. I… don’t know, it was just fun, I suppose. But Rhodey took it too far. So, yeah.” He wasn’t looking at Steve anymore.

Steve decided to push his luck. “Was that an apology, Mr Stark?”

Tony laughed, short and sharp, without looking back at Steve. “As good as you’re gonna get, _Mr_ Rogers.” He laughed at his own joke and turned around, grin cutting on his face. “Scout’s honour.” He raised three fingers in a salute. Steve felt his face fall into a scowl.

“Hey, no, now, no. My bad, too far, I realise that, kid.”

Steve didn’t unlock his jaw. “We done here?”

Tony inhaled sharply through his teeth, looking like he’d been physically pained. “Wow, I really did overstep the mark, didn’t I? Hey, you leave if you want to, buddy, but if you’d like to stay – well, I mean, another pair of hands isn’t going to hurt with this clean up, is it?” He smiled again, softer this time, less teeth. Steve chewed his lip. Once again, he _knew_ he should leave – he didn’t owe this boy anything, didn’t have to clean up his mess.

Still, he grabbed a brush from the corner and walked over to where Tony was standing, his arms wide.

“A true gent.”

Steve let that one slide, starting to sweep. He could help and not like the boy, after all, couldn’t he?

Tony picked up the object that had been on fire from where he’d thrown it to the floor and turned it over in his fingers again, before throwing it, more accurately this time, into the trash. “Ah well.”

Steve had promised himself he wasn’t going to say anything, but curiosity got the better of him.

“What was that? I mean, what were you doing?”

“That?” Tony pointed at the trash can whilst heading back to the desk. “It was _going_ to be a new power source for my latest project, but it didn’t quite work out. Chemistry isn’t my favourite part of the process, being honest. I blame the equipment – if they’d give me my lab back, there wouldn’t _be_ this problem, trust me – you can’t make good lasagne without decent pasta, after all, can you?”

Steve had literally no idea what he was talking about, so he latched on to the one bit he’d understood. “ _Your_ lab?”

Tony shrugged, picking up the extinguisher and putting it back on the wall. “They’ve got to put me somewhere, haven’t they? And it’s not like their lessons are worth my time. But _no,_ one little  explosion and they close it for ‘maintenance’, so I’m stuck in high-school standard labs with equipment deemed safe enough by the _government,_ of all people. Pah! I told them it was fine – hell, it _is_ fine, any idiot can see that. It’s seen worse, they just don’t know about it.”

Steve had still yet to understand. “You have your own lab?”

Tony stopped, looking at him with his head to one side. “ _Yes,_ ” he stressed. He voice darkened. “Thanks to good old Dad.”

“Why?” He thought the question was obvious, really.

Tony clearly disagreed; his expression was incredulous. “Why? Well, er, I’ve never really considered it… everyone’s got a thing, though, haven’t they?”

“A thing.” Steve repeated, starting to sweep again slowly.

“Yeah.” He moved to start cleaning and putting the rest of the equipment away. “You know, some people paint, some people horse ride, I…”

“Blow things up.” Steve finished for him. Tony grinned.

“Mostly. But hey, I do make some useful stuff.”

Steve leaned on his brush. “Oh yeah? Like what, exactly?”

Tony raised his eyebrows at him over the sink. “Just… stuff. You know, gotta earn my keep. I’ll show you some time – if they ever give me my lab back.”

The offer was so casual, so nonchalant, that Steve doubted for a second that he’d heard it. He told himself not to make it into something it wasn’t – but no, that was definitely an invitation to hang out again. Had Steve just made friends with the school’s resident celebrity?

No. No, he didn’t like Stark. He didn’t like his dress sense, his friends or his attitude… but there, in that lab, he didn’t show any of those things. There, he was just some guy – a guy who was a little nutty about science, but a guy nonetheless.

But then Steve remembered, and it suddenly made sense; another thing he didn’t like about Tony Stark - he didn’t like anything he stood for or the way his precious science block was sapping the sports teams’ funding. Just so that he could have a new toy to blow up that week, it seemed.

“So then,” Tony continued, breaking the silence. “Everyone’s got a vice, Rogers, something they do to let go – what’s yours?”

 _But then,_ a voice inside of Steve was saying, _maybe he doesn’t know about the sports teams’ funding?_ It was his father’s money, after all, not _technically_ his.

Steve ventured out, entirely aware of the way Clint had reacted when he’d heard about his new project, and preparing himself for the worst, but hoping for the best. After all, this wasn’t the jerk who Steve had come to know in the corridors, he’d established that.

“Football.” He paused. “At least, it was.”

Tony nodded, slowly, his bottom lip jutting out.  Steve waited for the blow.

“Never mind, eh? You clearly didn’t have that in mind when you picked your new school.”

Steve frowned a little. Tony clearly hadn’t heard – or didn’t understand. “What, you mean the old team?” Tony nodded. Steve coughed. “I don’t know, see – from what I heard, it’s just a little… _underbenefitted._ ”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “I see. Well, you heard wrong. They were just shit, Rogers.”

Steve put a little more effort into his sweeping, keeping his voice steady. “Well, yeah – but that doesn’t mean every team here will be. I mean, if someone were to… kick start it, again-“

“Oh, no.”

Steve looked up. Tony had stopped washing, was looking at him across the room. Steve stood up straighter, knowing that the penny had dropped.

“Yes?”

“Oh _no_.” His grin was growing again. “Rogers, are you seriously telling me-“

Steve jutted his chin out. “Problem?”

Tony’s grin widened further. “But… oh, of course!” He started laughing, quietly, building it up. “What, you gonna save the school’s team like you _save_ everything else? How _chivalrous_! How _noble_!” His chuckling turned into a loud guffaw.

Steve scowled. “Cut it out, Stark.”

But Tony was laughing too hard now to care. “No but – no but really, Rogers – how are you planning… how are you gonna even go about-“ he tried to get his question out between laughs, but it faded away. Steve waited for him to calm down a little, still steady.

“I’m Captain.”

Tony erupted into laughter again. “Of – of course you are!”

Steve threw his brush to the floor, sick of being laughed at. Apparently he’d been wrong. Apparently this was _exactly_ the jerk from the corridor, only dressed like a hobo. He marched towards the door.

“Aw, no – aw, hey, Rogers, I was only goofin’ around!”

Steve stopped in the doorway, looked back at Tony, his eyes brimming with tears, biting his lip to stop another laugh escaping.

“Who am I to speak out against the _Captain,_ anyway?”

He dissolved into laughter again, and Steve slammed the door shut on his way out with such force, it nearly flew from its hinges.

* * *

He met Coulson at the end of the day as he was heading out of the building. 

“Sir – Mr Coulson?”

Coulson stopped, turned – smiled, when he saw Steve. “Captain Rogers! Did you get my note?“

Steve pulled a face. “Er – yeah, about that sir… I’m not _entirely_ sure it’s worth it.”

Coulson’s smile drooped. “Oh. Right. No luck as of yet, then?”

His face looked resigned, but quietly hopeful. Steve couldn’t bear that – how could he let this man down, when he clearly cared so much?

“Well, I have _one_ player,” Steve began, and Coulson’s face lit up slightly again. He didn’t need to know that that player didn’t _technically_ know the rules… yet. “And – erm, I’m going to hold more tryouts, I think…”

It was out of his mouth before he’d even thought it through, but Coulson seemed to think it was a great idea.

“Yes, yes. Get the word out there, then, Captain. Now, I'm sorry, but I’ve got to go and see Mr Fury – I’ll send you a note again when I next need to see you.” And with a tight lipped smile and a curt nod, he strode away, briefcase in hand.

He really was unlike any football coach Steve had ever seen.

Sighing, he headed back over to the notice board before he forgot, and pulled a blank piece of paper from the notebook in his bag. Pinning it up, he wrote straight on to it, as neat as he could manage on a vertical surface.

 _Football Tryouts_  
Sports Field, Next Friday, after school.  
Please see Steve Rogers for details.

Well then, there was no going back now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! back again  
> yes i take a while, i'm sorry about that, thankyou for all the lovely feedback/kudos!  
> again, if any of the american-ness is off, please let me know, thanks  
> anyway, onwards :)

Steve sat in art, watching the second hand of the clock tick, his drawing in front of him entirely neglected.

2.30. Only fifteen minutes to go until the tryouts.

He felt a little sick.

“Steve. Hey, Steve.”

He _knew_ that nobody was going to turn up. Why had he even put the sign up in the first place? He knew now that it was pointless… turned out, that it definitely wasn’t just Clint over exaggerating about the football team’s reputation in this school – since the sign had gone up the week before, Steve had noticed people whispering in the corridors as he walked past, sniggering behind his back… he was _sure_ he wasn’t just being paranoid.

“Steve? Earth to Steve…”

And, of course, the new football team was just _the funniest thing_ Tony Stark had ever heard. Any hope that Steve had had about a reconciliation, a bit of peace in the corridors – hell, at one point, he’d even considered a _friendship –_ were dashed. Stupid thoughts, really. How he ever thought Tony would resist yelling decidedly not witty remarks at him in the corridors (most of which just consisted of yelling “Hey, Cap!” to get a laugh out of the other students) he’d never know.

“STEVE!”

Steve jumped a little, snapping back to reality to join the rest of the classroom in glaring at Clint. “No need to shout.”

Clint raised an eyebrow as the chatter started up again. “Clearly, there was. You’ve barely said a word all lesson, you’re daydreaming like freakin’ Alice in Wonderland or something, and, dude, _my_ drawing’s further along than yours. That’s saying something.”

Steve looked across at Clint’s sketch of Superman, which he was colouring with dots of brightly-coloured paint, and down at his own drawing of what was _supposed_ to be the flower in the middle of the table, but really was just a few lines on the paper.

He sighed. “I know. Sorry.”

Clint set his paintbrush down, eyeing Steve intently. “You alright?”

Steve chewed his lip, before sighing. “No.” He answered honestly, and checked the clock. 2.35. Ten minutes. Clint raised an eyebrow.

“You going to elaborate?”

“Ten minutes, Clint. Ten minutes and I’ll be laughed out of this school.” He let his head fall into his arms, on the table.

Clint huffed in a way that was probably a half-hearted laugh. “Tryouts?”

Steve didn’t look up, or say anything. With a melodramatic sigh, Clint carried on. “I wish I could tell you you were wrong.”

Steve titled his head up slightly, just enough so he could look at Clint. “Thanks, man.”

“Hey, hey, hey – I don’t like your tone there, Captain.” Steve winced at the name. “But I don’t know, as much as you don’t know, what’s going to happen in… oh, seven minutes?”

“Please don’t remind me.”

Clint smiled. “More like six. So yeah, the next half hour or so is pretty unpredictable. And yeah, you’ll probably get a ton of shit for what you’re doing. But, you never know, it might actually turn out alright. I don’t know, and neither do you.”

Steve barked out a laugh. “Why did I do this?”

“Fuck knows.” Clint grinned. “Well, no, you know. You love football, that’s not a crime. You just… well, you just chose the wrong school to love football in.”

_I didn’t choose this school,_ Steve’s subconscious told him, but he didn’t say it out loud. Instead, he just hummed in agreement with Clint, which seemed to satisfy him, as he picked up his paintbrush again.

“You know…” Steve began slowly, resting his chin on his arms, “if I had a friendly face with-“

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.” Clint said, not even looking up. “Fuck off, Rogers.”

Steve groaned, sitting up again.

Three minutes.

* * *

The trek to the sports field, as expected, was cold and lonely – Steve had an overwhelming sense that the weather somehow knew what was going to happen, and was building up the atmosphere accordingly, beating up piles of autumnal, rust coloured leaves into tornados at random intervals with a swift wind that bit at Steve’s ears and face.

Again, as expected, upon arrival at the sports field, he was alone.

Steve’s heart sank.  

But then again, hadn’t he known this would happen? He’d hoped, of course, that _someone_ would come, that _someone_ would get the ball rolling – but, no. Thor wasn’t even there, and he’d already made the team.

At this rate, there wasn’t going to be a team to make.

Steve slumped to the floor and threw down his bag, pulling his knees to his chest and running his fingers gently over the grass beneath him. The wind drew water from his narrowed eyes but he looked into it anyway, hoping for some wave of inspiration to magically tell him what to do next.

“Good turn out.”

Steve’s head snapped around, blonde hair cutting across his line of vision as the wind blew relentlessly, but he could see clearly enough to recognise the speaker, even if he didn’t quite believe they were there.

“Natasha?”

She stood right next to Steve – how he hadn’t heard her advance he didn’t know – looking down at him with pursed lips and a look caught somewhere between disapproval and amusement. Her leather jacket was zipped up against the wind, her hands buried in her jeans pockets, her scarlet curls blown haphazardly in various directions across her head.

Steve scrambled to his feet, watching her intently, completely at a loss for words. Perhaps unintelligently, he settled on “Natasha?” again.

She rolled her eyes, flicking her hair from her face. “There is literally nobody else here, soldier.”

Steve hunched in on himself, tucking his hands under his arms and trying to keep the wind off his bare skin, still focussing on Natasha. He hadn’t seen her in _weeks_ – he had so many questions, his mind was reeling with them. What was she doing here? Where had she been? Were they friends again now? Or at least, were they whatever they had been before?

Still, all coherent words seemed to desert him. “You’re talking to me.”

She studied him for a good while after that, not moving, barely even blinking beneath furrowed brows. “Don’t push it.” She said eventually, looking away. “I’m cold, can we go somewhere sheltered?”

“I, erm…” Steve was still trying to get over the idea that Natasha could even _feel cold_ , never mind admit it, still trying to get his head around the fact that she was even _here,_ and couldn’t even contemplate something as complicated as moving. Natasha, clearly sensing this, simply rolled her eyes, picked up Steve’s bag and swung it over her shoulder with no effort at all before turning and starting to walk away.

Steve smiled as he jogged to catch up with her.

“So, where are we going?”

“Your truck.” She said, nonchalantly swinging his keys around her index finger.

He nodded. “Cool.”

Natasha unlocked the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat when they reached it, as if it were her own, as if they’d been best friend their whole lives. Steve told himself he didn’t mind, but really he knew he was too scared to call her out on it, and so jumped up into the passenger seat.

Even with the doors shut they could still hear the high whistle of the wind, feel its icy fingers on the back of their necks. Natasha scowled at the window that wouldn’t quite shut. “This car’s a piece of shit.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s a vehicle. It gets me around.”

“There’s only three seats, too, and that’s if you want to get real cosy up here.” She turned around. “And your trailer looks like it’s rusting.”

Steve shrugged again. “Do you have a vehicle, to get you around?”

She stopped, open mouthed, and narrowed her eyes at him. The very tips of her lips quirked in an almost-smile. “Touché.”

Steve smiled, looked to his lap. Natasha started fiddling, trying to get the keys in the lock.

“Don’t suppose the heating works-“

“Are we going to talk about where you’ve been? Have you been avoiding me?”

Natasha stopped fiddling, but didn’t look up. “Are we going to talk about your distinct lack of football players? That’s a much more interesting topic.”

Steve watched her carefully as she twisted the keys and the engine coughed into life, earning a disgruntled expression from Natasha. He had no clue what was going on here – here was a girl he’d met twice in his entire life, had only spent one whole school day with, sitting in his truck and hitting his dashboard, trying to get the heating to work. Were they friends, was that it? Because this didn’t feel like any friendship Steve had ever had.

That said, he wasn’t going to reject it – besides, she’d said she was cold, and she didn’t have the heart to kick her out.

No matter how scary she seemed, though, he was still determined to get an answer out of her as to where she’d been.

“Nothing to say.” He replied, as Natasha gave up with the heating, scowling. “I said I’d start a football team, clearly that hasn’t quite gone to plan. How did you know where the tryouts were?”

Natasha frowned at him. “I saw the notice, obviously. And I also saw your empty field – why didn’t Clint show his face? You two have been hanging out, haven’t you?”

“How do you know that?” He asked, tilting his head. “And how did you see the notice if you haven’t been in? Clint, like the rest of the school, didn’t want to come.”

She scoffed. “I know what you guys get up to without me – hey, just because _you_ haven’t seen me doesn’t mean I haven’t been there. And what a lousy friend he turned out to be, then.”

Steve considered her point. “Clint – well, I mean, I don’t know if I’d call him my _friend-_ “

She interrupted him with a hum. “Well, maybe don’t tell him that, as there’s only three people he tolerates in this school – me, you, and that great big weird blonde guy from the gym with the accent.”

“Thor.”

“What?”

“His name is Thor.”

Natasha looked at him blankly. “I don’t care. The point is, he clearly considers you a friend, and that’s a pretty lousy thing to do to a friend.”

Steve tried to ignore the warm feeling spreading in his stomach and stopped the smile springing to his face when Natasha said Clint thought of Steve as a friend. “It’s okay,” he said, instead, “I get it. I’m the laughing stock of the whole school, I get that he doesn’t want to associate with me.”

“Oh, because Clint’s basically Prom Queen in the popularity stakes, isn’t he? Jesus. So, how many players have you got?”

Steve chewed his lip. “One.” He mumbled.

Natasha nodded slowly. “Better than I thought.” She checked her watch. “Make that three.”

Steve looked up to her. “I’m sorry?”

Natasha reached for the door handle of the truck, looking back at him. “Three players. Whoever you’ve got, Clint, and me.”

Steve huffed out a laugh. “Clint won’t agree to join-“ He stopped, realising what she’d said. “Wait, you?”

She opened the door, and the swift burst of cold air made Steve flinch. Natasha didn’t look at him as she spoke. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? And don’t worry about Clint, if I tell him to, he’ll join.”

“Nat… it’s a football team – girls don’t, I mean, you know, it’s-“

She turned and glared with a force that made Steve want to go reeling backwards into the door of his truck, the steel in her eyes colder than any wind outside. “Trust me, soldier, it’s not in the rules, or I wouldn’t have said. And from where I’m standing, you can’t really afford to be choosy.”

With that, she jumped down onto the pavement. Steve couldn’t think of an argument against it, and found himself smiling, involuntarily.

“Natasha?” He called after her, just as she was closing the door.

She reopened it, questioning him with her eyebrows.

“I…” Steve stumbled over his words. “I’m glad you’re back.”

She just rolled her eyes and closed the door, before stalking away, leaving Steve, grinning, to climb over the gearshift into the driver’s seat, officially captain of a four man (and now, apparently, woman) football team.

* * *

Steve jumped – actually _jumped,_ like a small _child_ – at the sound of Bruce Banner’s voice as he sat down next to Steve the next day.

“Morning.”

Not at the other end of the desk, either. _Next_ to Steve.

The other boy jumped too, looked at him nervously, half-stood up out of his seat, warily opening his mouth even before he’d found the words to say. “Oh – erm, I’m sorry, do you mind? I mean-“

“No!” Steve cut him off with what he hoped was a friendly smile, but Bruce’s expression didn’t change. “Of course not. Sit there, that’s fine.”

Bruce slowly lowered himself down again, cautiously smiling. “Sorry.”

Steve laughed a little, despite himself, still mostly bewildered that the boy was there at all. “Don’t be. It’s fine. I was getting lonely at this end of the desk, anyway.”

Pulling the books from his tattered satchel, Bruce laughed quietly. “Just thought you could use a bit of shield if Stark shows up again, that’s all.” He smiled, not looking up.

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Well, you know,” Bruce shrugged, “he looked like he was bugging you. He’s been bugging me on-off for years now, I’ll teach you how to cope.”

Steve appreciated that – no mention of the way Tony treated him in the corridors, of the borderline bullying he was getting from a guy half his size, even though he had to have known about it – the whole school did. Steve started collecting his own things together, waiting for the Math teacher to arrive; obviously, he’d be waiting a while, as usual, but at least he had somebody to talk to, now.

“Hey, Banner, who’s your boyfriend?”

It was one of the usual suspects shouting at Bruce – Steve didn’t know his name – a kid with hair so short it was barely there at all, a ripped shirt and a thick, trunk-like build. Bruce flinched next to Steve, but didn’t say a word.

Steve watched him carefully. “Hey man, why don’t you just back off?”

But the kid ignored him. “What, not up for talking today? Jeez, you’re no fun anymore. What did they _do_ to you in that place?”

Steve glanced at the boy, who was standing in the aisle, clearly looking for a fight. He looked at Bruce. “Bruce-“

“Leave it.” His voice was careful, calculated, his fingers were knotted on his lap and his eyes staring straight at the blank pages of his notebook on the table. “Just ignore it.”

Steve looked back up to the boy, who was closer now. The rest of the class in front and to the side of them were watching, sniggering, grinning, waiting for the show.

“You know, I don’t even know why you bothered coming back. God knows you aint wanted here – or didn’t you get the message when they kicked you out the first time?”

That earned a louder laugh from the others, and a frown from Steve. But he couldn’t dwell on that now, he’d address it later. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bruce saw him.

“Steve. No.” He looked at Steve sideways through his wire-rimmed glasses, his breathing steady and controlled. “Don’t give him what he wants.”

But the boy didn’t stop. “ _God_ Banner! Come on!” He tossed a paper ball at Bruce’s head, earning a laugh from the crowd, but it just bounced off and Bruce never moved. “Dance for us, will ya?” He threw an eraser this time, earning another laugh, but still nothing from Bruce.  “We’re lookin’ for a little entertainment here.” This time, he threw a handful of pens, earning the loudest laugh of the lot.

Bruce flinched, Steve stood up, ignoring Bruce’s protests. The rest of the class’ laughing was cut short.

“I _said_ , why don’t you leave him alone? What’s he ever done to you?”

The boy advanced further, directly opposite Steve now, on the other side of the desk. They were similar heights, but Steve probably just had the advantage. The boy bristled.

“Who even are you?” The others laughed again, but he didn’t give Steve time to answer, turning to Bruce again. “I asked you already, Banner, who’s the new boyfriend? I have to say, I’m a little surprised – didn’t they warn you about him already, kid?”

The question was clearly directed at Steve, but the boy continued to look at Bruce. His breathing quickened, but he continued to stare straight down. The other boy apparently hadn’t noticed, grinning like an idiot. 

Steve stepped sideways, trying to get back into the boy’s line of vision. “What are you doing? Come on, man, leave it-“

But he just continued, as if Steve wasn’t even there, standing directly opposite Bruce. “I thought he’d come with a warning now, you see, especially after what happened to his last girlfriend.”

Bruce shut his eyes. His knuckles cracked as he formed fists under the desk. Steve pushed the boy’s shoulder, earning an appreciative ‘oooh’ from the rest of the class.

“Get out of it, will you?”

The boy smiled wider.

“Where is she now, Bruce? Or has she taken out a restraining order on you? There’s even rumours she,” he coughed, “ _ain’t around_ any more, if you catch my drift. Not too much of a loss, I suppose, must have had some kind of mental problem to begin with to go within a metre of you-“  
Bruce’s eyes snapped up to stare at the boy. Steve tried to catch his attention. “Bruce, don’t let-“

“Say that again.”

The crowd ‘ooh’ed in appreciation and anticipation, the boy let out a low chuckle, leaning closer to Bruce. “Say what again? About your girlfriend being retarded? Or about the fact that you’d probably have killed her if they didn’t _lock. You. Up_?”

Bruce stood up with a start, the harsh screech of his chair on the floor cutting through the surprised and excited noises from the rest of the class. The boy kept grinning, walking into the aisle again. Bruce watched him intently.

“Bruce,” Steve said quietly, “seriously. Sit down. I don’t know what you’re doing but honestly he isn’t-“

Bruce ignored him, following the boy to the aisle.

“Bruce!”

“Aint you gonna listen to your boyfriend, Banner?”

“I’d never have hurt Betty. I _never did_.”

Bruce tried to keep the distance between them, that was obvious. But the boy stepped forward, closing it. Steve followed Bruce, grabbed his shoulder.

“Bruce, don’t give him the satisfaction. Come on.”

Bruce shrugged him off, more fiercely than Steve had expected.

“Then where is she, hm? Cause nobody’s seen her since you left the first time. Like I said though, she was clearly as batshit as you anyway so nobody’s really-“

Then Bruce did something that was the last thing Steve expected of him.

He _dived_ at the boy. He reached straight for his neck, grabbing the collar of his shirt and forcing him backward through the crowd, through the tables and up against the windows that looked on to the school corridors. The boy had a good few inches on Bruce, but that didn’t seem to matter – the smile was forgotten, gone from his face in a flash, his fingers scrabbling at where Bruce had hold of his neck, and was apparently strangling the air out of him.

Steve dived straight after him, reaching for him, or the boy, or _anything_ to tear them apart, and found himself immediately surrounded by a swarm of the other students, none of whom were laughing any more.

Bruce pushed the boy up the window, too strong for a guy his size, and his eyes were narrowed, his voice clipped and vicious, spat through gritted teeth.

“Don’t _talk_ about _her_ like that.”

Steve was already upright, and just managed to get through the students as Bruce banged the other boy’s head against the window with force that would have shattered it, had it been glass. The boy’s feet weren’t on the floor now, his fingers still trying to get a grip on Bruce’s.

“Bruce! Get off him, come on man, get off.”

Steve grabbed hold of the back of Bruce’s shirt, just about to pull Bruce off the boy and take matters into his own hands – because _damn_ if he was going to let this kid get away with this - when there was a crash as the door of the classroom flew open, and Mr Baker entered the room. He threw his books to the floor and headed for the group, screaming at the top of his usually meek voice.

“Mr Banner! Get away from him _now_!”

And all at once, it stopped.

Bruce dropped the boy to the floor again; he immediately clutched for his neck, flattening his collar and breathing deeply, pressed flat against the window. Bruce, on the other hand, lost all viciousness from his expression – he looked at his hands, which started to shake, a look of pure fear in his eyes. He let his hands fall, knotting his fingers tightly into each other, and seemed to verge on hyperventilation as he looked at the boy regaining his breath opposite him.

He didn’t take his eyes off the boy, but spoke to the teacher. “Mr Baker, I-“

Baker’s volume didn’t reduce at all. “Principal Fury’s office! NOW!”

Bruce immediately looked away from the boy, to the floor, and shuffled ashamedly and rapidly off to the doorway and into the corridor

“Mr Rogers, Mr West, follow me. You’ll have your own meeting with Fury later.”

Steve looked, panicked, to the teacher. “Sir-“

“Now, please! Both of you!”

Steve followed him out of the room and into the corridor, accompanied by the other boy and entirely bewildered by the lessons events, leaving the class in silence, for once.

* * *

Steve hadn’t been in the principal’s office in a long time, but the steady tick of the clock on Fury’s wall took him straight back to the last time he had. He’d learnt to keep his temper in check since then, mostly – but he knew that if the teacher hadn’t have turned up at that moment, Steve could have taken the whole fight upon himself, and done a lot worse than Bruce, too.

As it stood, he was only implicated by trying to split it up. Although it didn’t feel like that – he felt as guilty as the guy who’d goaded Bruce and started it all off, sitting in the icy path of Fury’s one-eyed stare.

“So what you’re saying, Mr Rogers, is that Mr Banner was provoked into this attack?”

Steve fought the urge to roll his eyes. “It wasn’t an _attack_ , sir-“

“I’ll be doing the definitions here, Rogers.”

Fury’s voice, dark and collected, silenced Steve immediately. He coughed before continuing. “Yes, sir, he was provoked. Very much so. That other kid wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“And you felt the need to intervene, I see?”

Steve met his stare dead on, a small crease between his brows. “Of course.” He said, trying not to sound too much like he thought it was obvious. “Wouldn’t you?”

Fury lifted his chin. “This isn’t about me. Why did you intervene, Rogers? Was Mr West threatening you, too?”

“No-“ Steve began, sighing.

“Then why? Do you want to taint your record here the same way you have elsewhere? I was assured that the military regime had stamped that kind of attitude out of you before I admitted you to my school.”

Steve chewed the inside of his lip, confidence gone, all but ten years old again. “I wasn’t picking a fight, sir. I don’t do that. I just-“ He trailed off. Fury cut in.

“Yes?”

“I just don’t like bullies.”

Steve looked to his lap, every muscle in his body tense, as Fury leaned back in his chair, watching him carefully.

There was a long pause before Fury broke the silence.

“Consider this a warning, Rogers. Any funny business from you and you’ll be out on your ass, do you hear me?”

Steve gingerly looked up. “Yeah.”

“Excuse me?”

Steve winced. “Yes, sir.”

“Better. Now get the hell out of my office, Rogers, and don’t let me catch you in here again.”

Steve stood and made to leave – but before he did, he stopped at the open door. “… Sir?”

Fury looked up, not quite believing Steve was still there. “Mr Rogers? Are you _asking_ for detention?”

“No, sir.” The words came out a little too quickly, but Steve continued nonetheless. “It’s just… what’s going to happen to Bruce?”

Fury did not look amused by his question. “I don’t really think that’s _any_ of your concern, Rogers. Now, did you hear what I said about _getting the hell out of my office_?”

“Yes, sir.” He shut the door with a quiet click, mind still reeling from the days events, and praying with every fibre of his being that Bruce didn’t get expelled.

* * *

Making his way back to his truck, Steve wanted nothing more than to just go home and try and sleep the day off.

What he did not expect was two people sitting in the back of it, one throwing jellybeans at the other’s head, apparently waiting for him.

“…Guys?”

Natasha looked up, pausing from throwing the candy at Clint’s head to smile a little at Steve. “Hello, soldier.”

Clint let out an unamused grumble, holding his chin in his hands with a deep-set frown on his face like a grumpy toddler.

Raising his eyebrows, Steve checked his watch. “Guys, school finished, like, a _half hour_ ago-“

“Meh.” With one graceful movement, Natasha leaped from the back of the truck, brushing her pants down. “I needed to tell you the good news.” She looked back at Clint, her smile faltering, fading into her usual steely glare. She coughed deliberately, and Clint glared back, pushing himself across the trailer so he could jump down, looking like he desperately wanted to pull tongues at her. She turned back to Steve with a smile.

“Good news?” He asked. “What good news?”

“Well, it’s _Clint’s_ news really, so I’ll let him say it.”

Clint looked up at her, glaring daggers, jaw set. Natasha didn’t look back, giving him a swift slap across the back of the head. With a groan, he mumbled something unintelligible.

“Sorry, what?” Steve was genuinely confused, but Clint glared at him anyway. Natasha narrowed her eyes and kicked him in the back of the knee so that he stumbled forward until he was practically on Steve’s chest.

“Clint.” She warned.

He looked at his own feet, and mumbled quietly and quickly enough that Steve wouldn’t have been able to hear him if he hadn’t been directly under his chin.

“I’lljoinyourteam.”

Steve grinned, first at the top of Clint’s head, then at Natasha. She arched one eyebrow, arms folded across her chest.

This time, he did drag it out. “I’m _sorry,_ what? You’re going to have to speak up, Clint – I don’t know, must be the wind, I can’t quite-“

“I’ll join your stupid team, okay?” Clint yelled, turning away from Steve with a huff. Steve cackled in delight.

“Glad to have you on board.” He ruffled Clint’s hair with a mad grin. Clint shrugged him off and flattened it down again.

“Fine, whatever, just _murder_ what _little_ social life I have then, see if I care!”

Natasha came back into view behind him. “You don’t have a social life, get over yourself.”

Clint pulled a face. “I _might_ have, if I weren’t on the _football team._ ” He turned back to Steve, with an accusing, pointed finger. “And _you,_ ” he all but growled. Steve snorted. “ _You._ The least _you_ can do is give me a ride home.”

He stormed past Steve and jumped into the front seat, slamming the door, arms crossed tightly. Steve laughed again as Natasha followed him, assuming that she was getting a ride, too.

“Hey, Natasha?”

She paused at the door, looking back at him.

“Thanks.”

She shrugged. “I have ways of making him do what I want, what can I say?” And with a sly smile, she climbed in the truck.

Steve walked around to the driver’s side, a smile lingering on his lips, assuring himself that the day hadn’t been a _complete_ waste of time, and making a mental note never to get on the wrong side of Natasha again. 


End file.
